


Debt and Dice

by WingedAria



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, F/M, Graveyard Hag - Freeform, Immortals, M/M, Resurrection, Stormwing, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedAria/pseuds/WingedAria
Relationships: Numair Salmalín/Veralidaine Sarrasri
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48





	1. Battle of the Immortals

The Stormwing leaned into the wind, arcing like a vulture over the battle. His queen was just ahead, with her consort, scanning the field below for the next fight. They had fallen into the familiar formation, Queen Barzha in the center, Hebakh at her left wingtip, and Rikash on her right. He stretched his wings, enjoying the flight. This was their natural place, although actually participating in a mortal battle was unusual. This time, the stakes had risen too high for them to wait idly by. For Rikash and his queen, the battle was personal. She had been deposed by a mortal man and imprisoned in his menagerie rather than killed in combat by her successor as tradition required. Rikash had freed her and her consort, with the help of Daine, a god-born girl who had become an unlikely friend, and now the sixty-three remaining members of the Stone Tree clan fought alongside mortals willingly. Chaos and the gods themselves were players in this game, along with dragons and all manner of creatures. Some, like the Stormwings, had volunteered or taken a side, but many were enslaved by the enemy. 

The air running through his blond hair rustled the steel covert feathers of his wings and carried up the scents and sounds of the battle. Below them, men in leather or armor struggled against one another, or fell bleeding onto the field and called out to their gods. Everywhere was the clash of swords, the screaming of horses, and the delicious sharp scent of fear. Rikash breathed in deeply and grinned with pointed steel teeth. After the victory, his flock would feast on the dead of both sides. 

While Queen Barzha and Hebakh conferred, he spotted something unexpected on the far side of the field. There was no explosion, and he saw no fire, but smoke boiled off the ground. It rose like a pillar, in defiance of the wind. Rikash hovered for a moment, falling behind the other Stormwings as he watched the shifting colors of Chaos stream through the column of smoke. Everything in his nature was repulsed and seduced simultaneously. He shifted his flight path unconsciously to spiral closer. The colors drew his gaze, and the acrid smell of the smoke amplified the adrenaline and endorphins rising from the battling humans. The smoke bent, leaning towards him, into the wind, and leapt up again into the sky. The top of the column split into three, a pair of pupil-less red eyes gleaming out of each section. The three-headed smoke creature seized warriors from the friendly Tortallan line and devoured them, long black teeth materializing from nowhere to shred and dismember. Now it seemed to be another monster of human magecraft, nothing more, and his fascination was broken. 

He pivoted on one wingtip and fell, folding the sharp blades of his feathers like a falcon. With the sun behind him, the creature could see only the flash of his folding wings before the strike. Rikash extended his talons, dark with the blood of earlier victims, and dug them into the smoke monster’s eyes. The feel of it was all wrong, neither smoke nor flesh, but something dense and viscous and somehow slimy. He raked his talons free, beating his wings hard. The multicolored smoke trailed down from his legs like streamers, but the red glinting eyes were still there. They focused on him, even as a cloud of starlings mobbed another head, and a knight on horseback swept his blade through the beast’s third neck. The onyx teeth appeared again as the monster opened its jaws to scream, lunging for him. Unable to gain height fast enough, Rikash let gravity take over, sweeping the razor sharp blades of his primaries across the creature’s face. They stuck fast, lodged in the smoke-flesh of the monster, and he dug in with his talons as the smoke serpent lashed its head like a terrier with a rat. The disgusting simulacra of flesh and scale he had clung to gave way, and suddenly he was flung backwards, unable to get airflow over his wings. He swept them back, pulling hard against the air, an unaccustomed fear flooding his muscles with strength. It wasn’t enough. The struggle was over; there was a sharp jolt, a gasping inability to drag air into his lungs, and darkness. In the dark, someone was keening, and then even that was gone.

A woman stood before him. He could see her deeply wrinkled face clearly. It was one he remembered most recently from his time in Carthak. She looked now, as she had then, amused and sad and mischievous at once in the way only the most elderly of mortals could manage. It was an expression she’d had millennia to perfect, because of course she was no mortal. The Graveyard Hag leaned hard on her walking stick and peered down at him.

 _Well, you’ve gone and done it now, dearie,_ she said. He looked down at himself, wondering how badly he was wounded, but she pushed his chin up with her stick. _Now, now, none of that. I owed you, from Carthak and your help with that lout Ozorne. I haven’t got time for more of a chat, so begone._

The stick thumped hard into his chest, forcing him away. He slid through the darkness and crashed back into himself. His chest ached where she had struck him, and he couldn’t get enough air. There was something solid behind his back, and mud seeped along his skin. He seemed to be lying on the ground, which was a terrible place for a Stormwing to be. Panting, trying to get his lungs to refill properly, he cautiously opened his eyes. The boulder above him was streaked with his silvery blood, and there was a shower of steel feathers around him. From the pale arms and legs spread out to either side of his body, it seemed he had landed on a human, which had the misfortune to break his fall. He felt no pain in his own limbs, so he leaned forward to get his claws under him. The human legs beneath him bent at the knee, and he jerked backwards. His head ached, and his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, and found something wrong with his teeth. They felt flat, wide, and dull instead of sharp and narrow. He ran his tongue along them, confused, and leaned forward to spit out a mouthful of blood. Again the human legs moved as he did. 

With growing suspicion and something he suspected might be horror, he flexed his claws and saw the human foot curl. His stomach felt odd, tense and uncomfortable. He retched and brought up more blood, wiped an arm across his mouth, and then stared at the arm. It was pale where it wasn’t bloody or covered in mud, and when he moved the muscles of his wingtip, the fingers waved. This was impossible; but then he remembered the vision of the Hag. He turned the hand over and moved the fingers again more purposefully. It was long-fingered, elegant despite the dirt under the nails and creased into the palm. He rubbed his thumb along his fingertips, feeling the soft scrape of skin on skin. His hand began to tremble. He pressed it down on the ground and felt the clamminess of the mud seep up between the fingers. Then he pushed himself upright, sitting against the boulder in a way that had never been possible before. There was no metallic rustle of feathers, only the swish of his hair on his shoulders and the click of the bones braided into it. The stone against his back felt cool and solid, and he rested his head against it, shutting his eyes against sudden dizziness. The trembling spread from his hands until his whole body was seized with shivering. 

Rikash thought again of the Graveyard Hag, who had never been his goddess. Immortals like Stormwings worshipped no one. They lived among the gods and had no need for them. This transformation was impossible, and yet he had done the reverse to Ozorne just the year before, with the help of the Hag. 

Steel feathers screamed through the air overhead and he opened his eyes to see the flock circling lower. The battle had ended while he was unconscious, and the Stormwings remained to feast on the dead. A pair of them dropped down to land on the boulder at his back. Queen Barzha’s dark hair whipped around her face as she beat her wings hard to soften the landing, Hebakh moments behind her. For the first time, Rikash could smell the odor of decay that clung to his queen and her consort, and sweat rose on his forehead as he fought the urge to vomit. The two Stormwings looked down on him, and any doubt he had about his situation fled. 

Barzha’s carved, perfect cheekbones surmounted a mouth open in shock. Hebakh recoiled, flapped his wings and nearly fell from the boulder, gone even paler than usual. Rikash licked his lips again, moistening his dry mouth to try to speak, and felt those flat teeth where he expected pointed metal ones. He clenched them together against the shivering, unsure what he had planned to say anyway. 

Barzha hopped off the rock behind him, flapping heavily to land where he could see her. Her wings were mantled, steel feathers ruffled along her back. Her bare breasts and belly were spattered and streaked with gore and mud. 

“What happened to you?” She asked, her low voice even rougher than usual. “You were dead, and now you’re…” She trailed off, looking him over from toes to fingertips. 

“She said she owed me,” Rikash said, his tongue feeling clumsy behind the new teeth. “The Graveyard Hag.” 

Hebakh laughed his nervous, pitchy laugh from the boulder. “If this is her idea of a favor, I’m glad she’s not in my debt!” 

Barzha glared at her consort with eyes as dark and glinting as her crown of black glass, and he fell silent.

Rikash glanced up at the other Stormwings circling overhead. There weren't as many as he would’ve expected, and all from his clan. The queen followed his gaze. There was work to be done now, among the fallen. They would feast on the bodies of the dead, and despoil what they could not eat. There was no place for a mortal among the flock, and he seemed to be mortal now. 

“Fair winds, Lord Rikash,” Queen Barzha said, spreading her wings with sorrow on her clear, cold face. “We will mourn your loss.” There was nothing else to be said: what the goddess had done could not be undone. She and Hebakh took off together, to join the rest of the clan, leaving Rikash naked and alone in the mud of the battlefield. 

He looked after them for only a moment, the muscles in his back tightening automatically to raise wings that were no longer there. His shoulders trembled and he stared down at his hands, bewildered. His legs were still stretched out, and he curled his toes experimentally. Then, leaning on the boulder for support, he rose to his knees. His fingers traced a line of his own blood where it had trickled down the rock face. The toes of his new feet dug into the earth. It was chilly, and he felt a prickling all along his skin. The skin of his arms was covered in fine golden hairs, which were standing up, he realized on closer inspection. He wrapped his free arm around himself, feeling the wind as a cold sensation for the first time. Tentatively, he planted one foot and shifted his weight to stand, but wobbled and had to put a hand down to stop himself from falling. There was something sharp under his hand. He grabbed it reflexively and winced as it cut into his palm and fingers. It was one of his old primary feathers, a steel blade nearly three feet long. Picking it up carefully in his left hand, he compared it to the pale, bleeding fingers of his right, and, shivering, wondered if Hebakh was right.

Still, alive and mortal had to be better than the alternative. There was a dead soldier several body lengths away. Rikash crawled to the corpse. Undressing the dead was nothing new to him. The layers of clothing, leather, and even armor were merely obstructions to be slashed away from the meat. Now though, looking at the fallen soldier’s bloodless, still face, his stomach heaved with nausea rather than hunger. He paused, leaning back on his heels, and waited for the illness to fade. The man was dressed in a leather jerkin, studded with rings too distantly spaced to save him from the arrow buried in his chest. Blood had dried on the buckles of the jerkin, making them stiff and unusable, so Rikash slashed them with the feather. It made quick work of the straps, and he pulled the leather away to strip the dead man of his shirt and trousers. He pulled the clothing on, feeling the unfamiliar rasp of linen against his bare skin. The shirtfront was dyed dark and stiff with blood. He gritted his teeth as the sour iron tang of it, bile rising in his throat. He left the man’s boots, retrieved his feather, and looked up the field towards the castle. Somewhere up there were Daine and her long-legged lover, Salmalin. If they recognized him, if they believed him, at least he would have allies again. A Stormwing without his flock is nothing, and Rikash was now not even that.


	2. Aftermath

Mages and common women swarmed from the castle and village, bearing baskets of bandages and medicine, or empty sacks to loot from the dead. Rikash watched them cautiously, knowing he could not fight them, weak as he was from the shock of transformation and mortal life. Blood dripped from his right hand, so he clenched it around the opposite arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He was desperately thirsty, and cold despite the stolen clothes. He struggled to his feet, discomfort winning out over apprehension, and stumbled towards the nearest woman. She knelt by the side of a soldier, pouring water into his mouth from a skin flask. The man was beyond help. His entrails hung down into the dirt, and his dirty face was ashen around desperate and sunken eyes. The woman glanced overhead at the circling Stormwing flock, then smiled down at the soldier as she put the waterskin away. She slipped a knife from the bodice of her dress, still holding up the man’s chin; smiling peacefully into his face, she sliced the knife across his throat. Blood pulsed from the wound as the man jerked, then fell still. Rikash paused, watching. The woman glanced back at him, over her shoulder.

“No need to be afraid, soldier,” she called to him. “This one was too far gone. I sent him to the Black God kinder than those monsters up there would have done.” Rikash realized unhappily that she meant his flock. 

“Water,” he said, voice hoarse and unfamiliar in his own ears, and she handed him the flask. The woman wore simple clothes and no jewelry except for a sigil on a leather thong around her neck. She was maybe ten years older than he appeared to be, with a few threads of grey in her thinning brown hair. He sat to drink, uncertain that he could manage both drinking and standing. She shuffled across the ground on her knees, reaching out to probe the hole in the shirt he wore. The gentle, cool touch of her fingers was new and interesting. Only one mortal had ever touched him before. 

“The blood isn’t mine,” he gasped, coming up for air. “Needed the shirt.”

“Most people would’ve picked one that wasn’t ruined,” she sniffed, looking him over. He was suddenly conscious of the bones braided into his long hair and the steel feather he held like a dagger in his bleeding hand. He wondered how strange he must look to her. The impersonal touch on his chest was gone as the woman heaved herself to her feet. She brushed her hands over her rump and apron, smearing blood over older stains.

“You look strong enough. If you’re not wounded, help me.” 

Under her direction, they stripped the man of anything valuable, stashing what little they found in a sack before moving down the line. She attended to the living first, offering water and her own sort of mercy before looting their still-warm bodies. He wavered as he walked and she eyed him appraisingly, without sympathy. He had seen mortals doing this work before, and had often swooped low over their heads with talons extended to hear them curse or scream. Now he lifted the bodies and helped her to remove armor, boots, and clothes, in search of anything the woman could sell or use. The flock descended on the far end of the line, the clash of their steel feathers as they landed not quite loud enough to cover the desperate wails of the dying. Rikash looked away, unwilling to watch what he knew came next.

Just ahead of him a boy lay curled around himself in the mud. The boy wept silently, teeth gritted in a snarl of pain. He was young even for a human, maybe twelve, but kitted out in leather and with a spear in the mud beside him. He uncurled and reached for it as Rikash approached, and tried to sit up. Blood oozed from a slash in his chest. More worrisome was the broken leg, shattered below the knee. Rikash spread his hands in a gesture he had learned was peaceful and calming. The boy lowered the spear, and Rikash knelt beside him, tucking the razor-edged feather into a belt he’d stolen several corpses back. Glancing around to see if the woman was watching, he bent over the broken leg to sniff at the wound. There was no smell of corruption, and the boy seemed strong. He glared at Rikash fearfully. 

“You don’t look like no healer,” he accused, gripping the thigh of his injured leg protectively.

Rikash ignored him, turning to the woman. “This one can live,” he told her, to forestall the mercy strike she was a little too fond of doling out. 

She shrugged. “The healers are coming as they can. I’m moving on.” She didn’t seem to care much whether he followed, and she was moving away from the castle. He hadn’t forgotten the allies he hoped to find up there. The waterskin was almost empty, but he gave it to the boy, who gulped what was left. Rikash tried to stand, but the boy grabbed his wrist and tugged down with surprising strength. 

“Don’t leave me!” the boy begged. “Those things will get me, if her kind don’t first.” He gestured at the bright flashes of steel wings in the sky, then at the woman’s broad departing backside and the sack of stolen goods hanging over her shoulder. Rikash looked around; the nearest healer was quite a distance away, but towards the castle, red robe shining like a beacon. The healer wouldn’t make it to the boy before the flock did. Rikash sighed and carefully slipped an arm under the boy’s shoulders. 

“I can’t carry you,” he warned, as they rose precariously to their feet. The boy kept his mouth clenched shut and held his injured leg off the ground, leaning on Rikash to hop across the field towards the healer. It was slow going, but the man in the red robe saw them coming and sent one of his helpers scurrying towards them, dragging a stretcher. The apprentice’s white robe was muddy brown to the knee and streaked with blood from her work. She looked overwhelmed. Rikash and the boy paused to let the apprentice come to them. 

“Take that end,” the apprentice ordered Rikash, once the boy settled onto the canvas stretcher. With Rikash growing steadier on his feet, they carried the boy out of the lines of the fallen soldiers and into the castle. A legion of healers and white-robed apprentices worked in the hall among men who screamed or moaned from cots, blankets, or the stone floor where they had been left. The boy grabbed Rikash’s hand again as he turned to leave.

“Thank you,” the boy said quietly. “For not leaving me there to die.”

A healer arrived, sparing Rikash the need to find a reply. Thanks and gratitude weren’t customary among Stormwings, but then again, neither was mercy. 

Among the bustle of the battle’s aftermath, one man could go easily unnoticed. Rikash slipped from the hall to a staircase, winding his way up to the towers. He had only ever gotten there from the air before, so it was a challenge. The stairs themselves were challenging; he paused at each landing to ease muscles in his legs that hadn’t existed that morning. When he reached the tower, though, the rooftop was empty. He couldn’t think of where else to find Daine, and was too tired to keep searching. So he tucked himself into an alcove, leaned against the wall, and fell asleep. 

He awoke to worried and curious faces crowding his vision, and tried to sweep his wings up to push them back. The arms that came up defensively instead of wings were a harsh reminder of what had happened, and where he was. Three children encircled him, two boys and a girl, dressed in fine simple clothing. He remembered seeing them before, with Queen Thayet and the Lioness. They peered at him anxiously, and he lowered his hands. 

“I told you he was alive,” the youngest boy said happily. 

The older girl studied his face. “You look familiar. Are you supposed to be here?” 

Rikash didn’t know the answer to that question, so he ignored it. “We’ve met before. I’m a...friend of Daine’s. Veralidaine Sarrasri. You know her?”

The middle boy snorted. “Course we do. She’s our friend too. She’s sleeping.”

“When she wakes up, you can ask her about me. Tell her I need help.” The words came hard, pulled over shreds of broken pride. 

The girl whispered something to the older boy and disappeared down the stairwell. She returned in minutes with an older woman, clearly their nurse. Despite his protests, the nurse felt his chest for wounds, examined the cuts on his palm and fingers, and tutted over his bare, scraped feet. Seeing he was more or less intact, she sat back on her heels. 

“Now, suppose you tell me who you are, friend of Daine. I don’t remember seeing you about.”

Rikash couldn’t think of an answer that didn’t sound mad. “I knew her in Carthak,” he hedged, sticking to as much of the truth as he could. 

“Hmm,” the old woman hummed doubtfully. “Not much good ever came from Carthak. You look Scanran, anyway, like that mage Master Numair took care of.” She stood, gathered the children, and waved to a guard. “When Daine wakes up, she can tell us whether you’re a friend or not. In the meantime, there’s a cell down below waiting for you.”

The nurse gestured and the guard seized Rikash by the arm, hauling him away. 


	3. Unwelcome

The cell was terrible. Bare stone, cold underfoot, and so small he wouldn’t have been able to stretch his wings. The iron bars that fenced him in would’ve been nothing to his magic, but he couldn’t feel the gold spark in his chest where the magic should have been. There was a mat of straw ticking and a blanket, so he curled on that and tried to stop shaking. This body was so fragile, cold and trembling and powerless. He arched the toes of one foot in the dimness, imagining the talons that should’ve been there slicing through the thin wool blanket. He wiped the worst of the dirt and dried blood from the wounds on his hand onto his trousers, and then licked the wounds clean. The bright metal taste of the blood reminded him of dueling nights, under the full moon, when slights of honor could be corrected. He hadn’t gotten to his position by cowardice or through dishonor, and he wouldn’t start now. Forcing his muscles to stop shivering, he sat and raked his fingers through the blond snarls of his hair. The bones in his hair clicked as he worked through the knots. He undid the braids, separating the bones with their talon-carved holes. Several of them were finger bones and carpals retrieved from dead humans, so he felt a bittersweet sense of accomplishment as his new hands straightened and rebraided the strands. For Stormwings, braiding was done by someone else, someone close or beloved. It took a great deal of trust to allow those steel talons to weave through hair, so close to the delicate eyes and ears. Now, he could do it alone. He had to do it alone.

The last braid fell against his neck, the little bones clicking against one another. He sighed, relaxed against the wall, and resigned himself to the quiet and the dark. 

The rattle of keys startled him awake, followed by the thunk as the latch released. The guard gestured, and Rikash struggled to his feet. His legs tingled from sleeping against the wall, and his neck ached as he looked up at the guard. The man had an open, pleasant face under his red beard, but his hand on Rikash’s arm was firm. The guard guided him out through the corridor to the main courtyard without offering any explanation. 

Sunlight flared through the doorway. Rikash had no idea what day or time it was, disoriented by the hours in the dark. 

“Where are you taking me?” He asked the guard, who looped a length of rope around his wrists. 

“Prisoners go to Corus, they told me. I’ll be glad to be back in the city, myself.” The guard tightened the knots and left, satisfied. There was nowhere for Rikash to go. 

Rikash looked around the courtyard as it filled with other prisoners. On the whole, they were soldiers in enemy colors, looking worse for the wear. He knew these were the lucky ones. Their friends who hadn’t surrendered were either feeding his flock or burning. He could smell the smoke, a heavy haze drifting over the wall. It carried the rich bitterness of burning meat, and he felt a pang of hunger more remembered than physical. Guards came and went, escorting prisoners and eventually tying them into long strings. Some of the enemy soldiers talked amongst themselves; a few bold ones joked with the guards. Only a few seemed nervous or defeated. Rikash stayed quiet, watching. He’d never had any interest in this side of the battle’s aftermath, and didn’t know what to expect. The red-bearded guard returned and the gate opened. The rope around Rikash’s wrists pulled him forward into the line of prisoners. He had no sense of how far it was to Corus on foot: all his mental maps were from the sky. 

The smoke thickened as they left the walls, harsh in his eyes and throat. Several of the guards pulled cloths over their mouth and nose. The one nearest Rikash made the thumb to forefinger sign against evil, watching the sky. Rikash followed the man’s gaze to see the silver flash of Stormwings, spiraling over the battlefield on the heat from the pyres. The prisoner behind him stepped on his heels and he stumbled, returning his eyes to the ground.

It took over an hour to leave the battlefield and its smoke behind. Rikash’s feet blistered and ached inside the stolen boots. He struggled to keep from limping. The soldier behind him cursed at him anytime he slowed, and the rope rubbed the skin of his wrists raw. Between the pain and frustration at his own powerlessness, he had to fight to keep his temper. By the time they halted, moving off the road into the shade of the overhanging trees, the sun was high overhead. The prisoners sat with relief in the cool salt breeze from the sea, and the guards passed around dry biscuits and water. Rikash stared at his, crumbling a piece from the edge. It smelled like nothing at all, and tasted like sawdust. He handed it to the soldier beside him. The man wolfed it down in two bites and picked up the crumbs that fell down his shirtfront. After the long morning’s march, the other prisoners were quieter. They didn’t know him and expected nothing from him. It was strange, to feel so isolated in a crowd, but he was used to humans ignoring him or worse, and so stretched his aching legs in silence. 

Too soon, they were commanded up again, and walked until dusk along the long road north. Several times merchant carts or parties of nobles on horseback forced them off the road. Otherwise the day passed in a fog of discomfort and uncertainty until they settled for the night at an outpost. The guards herded them into the stable and untied them from the long strings, although they left their hands bound. Once again the biscuits and water made their rounds, and once again Rikash passed his along. 

The next day passed the same way. Rikash’s legs stiffened overnight, and the guard had to haul him to his feet to join the line. The man clapped him on the shoulder, tied him into the string, and then it was endless walking. By the third afternoon, he could see the walls of Corus ahead. Outside the city, the guards separated the prisoners into groups: uniformed soldiers, convicted criminals of various kinds, and enemy civilians. Rikash found himself shepherded through the city with the last group, and balked at the entrance to another dungeon. 

“I’m not your enemy,” he insisted to the guard.

“Should’ve said so in Port Legann,” the man said wryly. “Could’ve saved me some effort bringing you all this way.” 

He untied Rikash’s hands and pushed him into a cell. Rikash flexed his wrists and fingers, feeling the skin prickle as blood flowed back into them.

“I’m a friend of Daine’s. Please, tell her I’m here.” 

The guard paused, key in the door. Rikash met his eyes.

“Veralidaine Sarrasri. She lives here, in Corus.”

The guard snorted. “You, friends with the wild mage?”

He turned the key and left. Other prisoners called out to the guard as he passed, a jumble of voices asking for food or water or simply calling out insults. Rikash’s head swam and he sat down heavily against the wall. He closed his eyes and the room spun around him. Resting his head in trembling hands, he tried not to think of the weight of all the stone around him. A panic he’d never felt before clutched at him, and he fought it back with difficulty. He couldn’t escape, and even if he could, he had nowhere to go. 

Several hours passed before he heard footsteps on the stones of the passageway. He stayed where he was, blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak, pretending to be at ease. The footsteps belonged to Daine and Numair. Rikash was inordinately glad to see them, but only offered a little half smile. Numair gestured, and a bright ball of light appeared overhead in the cell. It threw harsh shadows on the walls and deepened the dark circles beneath the mage’s eyes. He looked worn and shaky, and Daine, tucked under his arm, was not much better. 

“They said y’know me?” The girl asked, her voice slipping back into the Gallan country accent of her childhood. 

Rikash felt dismay creeping in. If she didn’t recognize him, if they didn’t believe him, he might be truly alone, down here in the darkness. He stood, keeping the blanket on to hide the blood on his shirt. The pair watched him warily as he came close to the bars, and black fire glittered around Numair’s fingers. The ball of light followed Rikash, and shone on his face. Daine tilted her head up to see him better; he was now about a handspan taller than she. Then she gasped and stepped closer, putting one hand to the bars. 

“Rikash Moonsword?” She asked, disbelieving. He couldn’t believe it himself. 

“In the flesh,” he replied. 

Numair hissed, and the black fire spread to cover Rikash. He stood firm, expecting pain, but the fire slid over his skin like silk. Daine turned to her teacher. 

“That’s not possible, is it? I saw him die, with the smoke serpent. And how could he be mortal?”

Knowing Numair was apt to get into a longer academic discourse than Rikash had time for, he interrupted before the tall mage could reply.

“The Graveyard Hag has an interesting sense of repayment,” Rikash said dryly. “I’m not dead, yet, but I’m as you see me now.”

Numair looked doubtful, but Daine was looking Rikash over curiously. She reached through the bars and gently touched his injured hand, then stroked one of the braids that hung down his shoulder. She jerked her fingers back from one of the little bones as if it had stung her. 

“It’s human,” she replied to Numair’s look of concern. “I’d always wanted to ask, but it seemed rude.” 

Rikash laughed without meaning to, surprising them all. “That’s the first time you’ve concerned yourself with being rude to a Stormwing. You’ve made your feelings for us quite clear.”

For some reason, the girl blushed and turned away. Numair looked him over again, then nodded to the guard who waited just out of Rikash’s view. The black fire swept over Rikash again, but the mage seemed content for the moment to let the matter of his transformation rest. The guard unlocked the cell and Daine looked Rikash over, wrinkling her nose. 

“We’d better find you a bath and some clean clothes. Then we can talk some more.”

The servants who brought the water paid him no more attention than any other guest. They poured steaming water into the tub, left soap and cloths near at hand, and took away the torn, ruined clothes he stripped off. They looked at him askance when he undressed to the skin while they bustled around the room. The younger one giggled, giving him a long second look. The elder servant scowled at her and hurried her out of the room. 

Rikash touched the hot water tentatively. It burned his cold hands, and he backed away. Stormwings avoided water, as a rule. It was difficult enough to fly with dry steel feathers; a landing in a body of water was certain death. He picked up one of the small cloths and dipped it into the water, then washed his face and hands. The deep slash on his palm ached. The younger servant came quietly back in, alone this time, and picked up one of the clean cloths and soap. She dunked the cloth in the tub and rubbed it along his arm, washing away the dirt and blood from the battlefield. He startled, flinching away from her without meaning to. She gestured to the tub. 

“Aren’t you going to get in? Or you can do it yourself, if you’d rather.” Under her impatient gaze, he put one leg in, then the other. He sat down, letting the water wash up to his chest. The heat was soothing on his tired muscles, and he tried to relax. The servant gave him a little smile as she washed his arms, then moved behind him. The water around him darkened with dirt and worse as the warm cloth moved in circles on his back.

“They say you’re a friend of Daine’s, from Carthak?” The woman made it a question.

“I was there while she was healing the Emperor’s birds,” Rikash replied, although that was the least of what Daine had done in Carthak. “What else are they saying about me?” 

“Not much yet,” she replied cheerfully. “There’s been a great deal of strangeness, but we’re getting used to it.” She poured water through his braids and soaped his hair. 

“Can I take these out?” the maid asked with distaste, lifting one of the bone-decorated braids. 

“No,” Rikash replied shortly. The maid finished washing his hair and offered a larger dry cloth in silence. 

“There’s clothes waiting for you, on the bed,” she said, and left the room. 

He dried himself with the cloth, taking the time to look over his new body. As humans went, he supposed the Graveyard Hag had done well for him. Everything seemed in the right place, and well-made. He still felt precarious on those flat, talon-less feet, but his balance was improving. He looked out the window, marveling that humans chose to live so high with no wings to catch them if they fell. Then he looked at the clothes and wished the maid would come back. The breeches had eight small, flat buttons at the waist instead of a drawstring. The shirt, at least, slipped over his head easily, and was much softer than the stolen one. The fabric felt smooth instead of coarse, and draped nicely to his mid-thigh. He pulled the breeches on and struggled with the buttons, unable to get the trick of it. Buttons were much easier to cut off than to put on, he thought, and then remembered his feather. The guard had taken it from him, when he was locked in the first little cell. It was the only semblance of proof he had that his story was true. He managed two buttons and gave up; he looked at the shoes and didn’t even bother to try.

Rikash walked to the door to see if the servants could help, and found it locked. So, they weren’t trusting him after all. He pulled at it a couple of times, then returned to sit on the bed. The older servant woman came in and tsked at his disheveled clothing. He held up his injured hand in explanation, feeling strangely guilty, but she only tsked again and proceeded to dress him properly. The shirt laced close at the neck, he learned, and the boots were softer than they looked, only ankle-high. There was also an over-tunic in forest green, embroidered around the neck and sleeves in cream colored wool. He’d always been amused, seeing the creativity and effort the humans put into dressing themselves, pointless though it had seemed. Now, although his arms and chest felt restricted, he enjoyed the comforting weight and warmth of the layers of linen and wool. 

“Whose are these?” He asked the servant, to keep track of his debts.

She tsked again. “Can’t have naked strangers running about the place. These’re extra.” She looked him over once again and left, apparently satisfied. 

The light from the window slipped over the wall, and he waited. He thought it had been four days since he awoke on the battlefield, and he was hungry. It had been his normal state of being, as a Stormwing. There had been centuries of starvation, locked in the Divine Realm, away from their human prey, so he was accustomed to the feeling. Between battles they fasted, unable to die of starvation, but always hungry and searching. Unlike the steel-feathered one, though, this body grew weak without food. There was water in a pitcher, so he drank that and told himself to be content. He stood, paced, and practiced manipulating the ties and buttons of his clothing until his fingers ached and the wounds in his hand started to bleed again. The sun had set and the room was dark and cold before he had another visitor.

Daine opened the door, her dark eyes grave. She wore a loose tunic and breeches like his, but pale blue with high brown boots to the knee. One of the castle cats wound itself around her ankles. Numair, behind her, spoke a quiet word and the lamps on the walls bloomed into a gentle white light. Rikash stood and the cat came to sniff around his boots. He knelt down to stroke its grey striped fur, and it nuzzled up under his hand. He smiled, remembering Maura’s affection for cats, and looked up to see Daine and Numair staring at him. 

“Do you have a way to prove you are who you say you are?” Numair asked. “I can see you’re not lying, or wearing a magical disguise, but that doesn’t rule out madness.”

Rikash as a Stormwing had been only mildly curious about human magic, but now things were different. The mage glowed faintly with black, glittering fire, which meandered under his skin like veins. Daine was traced by copper fire, which sparked between her and the cat at his feet. 

“You know I’m not lying by the magic you used in the cell, and you both know my face. The guard took one of my feathers that I brought along as proof. What more do you need?”

“Immortals don’t just become two-leggers. Humans.” Daine glanced at Numair for confirmation. “What happened with Ozorne, that was the goddess’ doing. I saw you - him, Rikash - die down there during the battle. Dead is dead.”

Riskash smiled. “You know better than anyone that isn’t true, Daine. I saw you wake the great lizards and elephants in that museum, dead thousands of years.”

The girl’s eyes widened, but Numair held up a hand to caution her. “Everyone has heard about what she did in Carthak. That’s no proof.”

“It was my flock that carried you to the Dragonlands,” Rikash insisted. “I was with you days ago. And only Daine and I know that the Graveyard Hag planned the trap for Ozorne. Daine and the Hag were thick as thieves there. The feather was mine. The Hag owed me for that, and apparently thinks her debt is repaid.” Rikash looked down at himself disparagingly. “I’m not certain I agree.”

“It’s not so bad, being a two-legger,” Daine murmured absently, stroking the cat’s arched back as she looked Rikash over. Numair raised a brow and stepped defensively closer to her. The girl either didn’t notice his spark of jealousy, or didn’t care, but Rikash took note. 

“Numair,” Daine said slowly, “we have to let him go. Either he’s telling the truth or he’s mad, but he’s done no harm. And you know how I feel about cages.” 

Numair scowled, but swung the door open. Daine took Rikash by the arm, and the three went down the hall, where supper was being served. A clamor of scents greeted them in the hall, unfamiliar but not unpleasant.


	4. Acclimation

At supper, the three children found him again. They sat across the table, fidgeting as they waited for their food. The adults conversed in low voices at the other end of the table, and Rikash saw a few glances his way. The children were less covert, but also less interested. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” the little boy said. 

“Me too,” Rikash said, which made them laugh. 

“Have we met before?” The girl asked, with a piercing look that reminded Rikash of her mother, Queen Thayet. 

“We have, but I don’t expect you’d remember.” 

“I remember everyone,” she replied, a little fiercely. “What’s your name?”

“Rikash,” he answered simply, leaving off the embarrassing last name. 

She pursed her lips, scanned his face. The food made its way down to them, interrupting whatever she might’ve said. Then Daine and Numair were back, seating themselves on either side of him. He tried to shake the feeling that they were his guards. 

He turned to Numair. “As a Sto-, well, before, I could see magic like your Gift and Daine’s god-born powers. Is that usual for mortals?”

Numair looked intrigued. “You’re still able to see magic? No, that’s unusual in an un-Gifted human.” He sank into thought, although it did not restrict the amount of food he was consuming. Daine slipped treats to a dog under the table, which leaned heavily against Rikash’s knee. He wasn’t sure he liked dogs, but let it be. It panted and rustled, and smelled strongly of fur, but he was hardly in a position to cause trouble, even for a dog. 

The children chattered at Daine while Rikash ate cautiously. He’d never been interested in human food before, so he accepted whatever was offered to him, watching the humans for etiquette. The meat had been roasted, and that was fine. He couldn’t bring himself to try the vegetables Daine ate, and many of the dishes were full of strange spices and herbs. Numair seemed to eat everything within reach with no discrimination. The little boy passed Rikash a warm loaf of bread, pointedly tearing off a small piece. Rikash did the same and passed it along, deciding after a bite that he should’ve taken more. 

When the meal was done, the king and queen left the table without ceremony, and everyone else stood to leave. Numair said, “I’d like to test some things, in my workroom. Would you come with me?”

Rikash wasn’t tired anymore, and had never seen the inside of Numair’s workroom, so he followed the mage through the castle. Daine left to tend the ponies with Onua, as she usually did when she was home, so the two men were alone. 

The workroom was cluttered with books, tools for jewelry-making, and various pots and jars. Riskash felt his shoulders tense up from the close confines of the stone walls and piles of magecraft supplies, but said nothing. Numair searched through the stacks of books, haphazardly shifting them around. He found what he had been searching for just as someone tapped on the door. A guard stood there, holding a bundle of cloth. He handed it to Numair, who thanked him absently, already turning back to a workbench. Rikash followed him, watching as he unwrapped the bundle to reveal a feather, perfectly sculpted from steel. Rikash gasped and reached for it, feeling the metal call to him. It was strange; over his long life he had shed thousands of feathers, but this one seemed important. Perhaps that was a side effect of being human, this attachment to worthless things. Numair’s workroom seemed proof enough of that. 

Numair swatted at Rikash’s hand, then reached out with his magic to cover the long feather on his workbench. A resonance shimmered between the man and the feather. However improbable, it seemed they had once been the same creature. He touched his own eyelids, leaving a dab of magic behind, and looked at the shorter blond man who stood impassively by his side. The man’s body was threaded through with pale green fire, his Gift flaring against his skin like an untrained child’s. There was no sign of the gold fire that betokened Immortal magic. Numair let his own magic trickle back into himself, satisfied, and offered a hand to Rikash.

“Impossible though it seems, it appears you were, the Stormwing Rikash Moonsword,” Numair said. Rikash shook the mage’s hand, wincing at the pressure on his own injured hand. 

“I was,” he agreed. “Now, thanks to the Hag, I don’t know what I am.” 

Numair was already pensive and distant, turning back to the stacks of books.

“That makes two of us,” he murmured. “There are plenty of stories, cautionary tales really, of unwise mages trapping themselves in immortal bodies. Or being trapped by an enemy, like Ozorne was. But the reverse...this is unprecedented. I’d like to write to some friends on the subject, do some tests, if you don’t mind. May I hold onto the feather for a few days?”

Rikash shrugged, a gesture that came as easily in this body as the old one.

“There aren’t any other pressing demands on my time,” he agreed wryly. “And it’s the least I can do, for your hospitality.” All the same, he moved pointedly to the door. He and Numair had never been friends, and the walk down from supper had been unexpectedly tiring. Numair waved a vague goodbye, already lost in his thoughts. Rikash slipped out the door, nearly bumping into Daine. She grinned at him, teeth and eyes bright in the glow from the magelights along the wall. 

“I thought it would be hours before you could escape his questions,” the girl remarked cheerfully. She must have seen a hint of his rising claustrophobia in Rikash’s face, because she took his hand and led him up several staircases. He controlled his breathing as if it were a long flight, focusing on each step up rather than the narrow walls and the dizzying layout of the castle. A cool breeze finally touched his face, and he looked up to see they’d reached a tower. Night had fallen, and the stars wavered like sparks in the sky. He tipped his head back, leaning gratefully against the roughly hewn stone of the outer wall. The wall dropped away beside him some fifty feet to the protective moat around the castle. He stretched a hand through the crenelation to feel the air rising along the warmer stone. He turned back to see Daine watching him with pity, and set his teeth. He didn’t need her sympathy.

“It’s baffling every time I change back to a two-legger,” she said softly, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. “And I do it a-purpose. I have to remember all over how to walk and talk, and how to act like a girl instead of -”

“A squirrel?” Rikash cut in, remembering the first time they met, as enemies. She had learned to ride in the minds of animals then, and the wildlife around the keep was particularly unusual for some time. He’d tried to kill her then, but it seemed that was forgiven, because Daine laughed.

“A squirrel,” she agreed. “Or a wolf, or a pony. I went half-mad with it, before I learned to control it. I’d lost everything that made me who I was: my family, my home, my future. So maybe I understand what you’re going through.” She reached out and took his left hand, stroking her fingers along his palm. It wasn’t pity, as he had feared, but empathy. He clasped her fingers gently and they sat together against the stone wall. “It helps, too, if you can settle your mind and quiet the bad thoughts.”

Daine resettled herself cross-legged across from Rikash. She waited while he figured out how to put himself in the position she demonstrated, falling into the deep, rhythmic breathing of meditation.

“I count my heartbeats and breathe in, one, two, three, four...and hold for four...and out again. As your heart slows, your breath will too. Try not to think of anything, just settle into your body.”

He tried it, closing his eyes to feel the air moving softly over his face and rustling his unfamiliar clothing. The collar of the shirt was tied too closely, so he reached up and unlaced it. Guards walked along the wall, booted footsteps echoing. Somewhere below, a couple argued, and a baby cried briefly. Hounds barked in the kennels, and a wolf howled in taunt or answer.

The sounds that he couldn’t hear were just as distracting. He missed the metallic rustle of his flock as they settled for the night in a sturdy tree, or atop a tower like this one. He missed their voices, joking and teasing one another, scaring off the local animals with their loud conversations and clashing feathers. Lost in the memories, he jumped at the unexpected pressure of Daine’s hand on his knee. 

“Let it go for the moment,” she reminded him. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, just accept it. Breathe.”

This time he left his eyes open, watching the rise and fall of her chest and the peaceful expression on her open face. He matched his breathing to hers, and was surprised to find a calmness rising from his belly to spread out in his limbs. His headache, which had been present since he awoke on the battlefield, eased. Time passed easily, and his eyes fell closed.

  
He awoke on the wall, with the rising sun on his face. Someone had draped a blanket over him, and it sparkled with dew. Daine was nowhere to be seen, but the red-bearded guard from Port Legann stood over him, looking down curiously. 

“Usually, the nobles sleep inside, on the plush beds,” the guard joked, nudging Rikash with a booted toe. “But to each his own, I suppose. I spend too much of my time out here already, to want to sleep here.” 

“I’m not a noble,” Rikash answered amiably. 

“Alright,” the guard agreed, although he looked doubtful. “And it looks like you’re not a prisoner either. Who are you then?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Rikash said, standing cautiously and shaking the drops of moisture from the blanket. 

“I’m not myself in the mornings either,” the guard laughed. “I know what you mean. There’s breakfast below, in the kitchens. Good enough for us common folk.” But he winked at Rikash, as if to say that he knew a noble when he saw one. 

Rikash thanked the guard, rolling the blanket up and leaving it tucked against the wall, and brushed at the wrinkles in his clothes. Breakfast was waiting below, as the man had promised, with a host of new smells. He sat at a long table after retrieving foods he could not name, amongst the castle’s servants. They glanced at him, taking in the fine but rumpled clothes and the contrast of his tangled hair. Since he didn’t speak, and didn’t seem to want anything, they all quickly ignored him. Daine found him during the meal, sliding onto the bench beside him. She smelled richly of ponies, hay, and leather, and had bright color in her cheeks from working in the cool morning air. As usual, she wore breeches and a tunic, although these were spotted with water and flecked with dirt and hay. She stole sidelong glances at him while they ate, until he stopped and looked pointedly at her. 

“A feather for your thoughts?” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just passing strange to see you inside, and sit next to you without thinking first which way is upwind, and worrying which of my two-legger friends might be feeding you and your flock after the next battle.” 

Rikash blinked, taken aback. “Well, I’ve never had to worry about your honesty,” he managed after a moment. Daine looked down at her plate, embarrassed. 

“You said one of the best things about being a Stormwing was that no one expects you to have manners,” she replied, without looking at him. “I’ve always had more questions than is polite.”

He nodded, chewing a piece of the crusty brown bread he’d discovered he liked. “I’m not offended. Ask whatever you want to know.”

She smiled up at him, but didn’t ask anything more. “Numair would be fair upset if I asked all the good questions without him. He’s set on writing a book about you, once he figures out how it happened.” 

“I’d be interested to read that,” Rikash answered dryly. “You let me know once he finds out why the gods do the things they do.” 

Daine laughed and rose from the table, tucking apples and bits of bread into the pouch on her belt. “I’ve got work to do with the ponies this morning. Numair wants to see you in his workroom.” Rikash rose with her, and bowed with a touch of sarcasm. 

“I am at your service, Lady Veralidaine Sarrasri, and Master Salmalin’s.”

Daine wrinkled her nose at the use of her full name. 

“I’ll see you at lunch,” she called over her shoulder as she left. “Don’t let Numair forget to eat.”

Rikash wandered the corridors for an hour before he found Numair’s workroom again. By that time, his legs ached, and he settled gratefully onto a stool in front of the workbench. The feather lay where Numair had unwrapped it, magelight glinting along one razor edge. The lanky mage had three books spread open before him, and stroked one finger along his nose as he read, deep in thought. Rikash copied the gesture, and decided he didn’t have the right sort of nose for it. He cleared his throat to get Numair’s attention, but the mage just held up one long brown finger and kept reading.

Rikash raised an eyebrow, feeling annoyance bubbling up. Instead of reacting, he remembered what Daine had taught him the night before, and found the deep pattern of breathing. In for four counts, and hold, and out. It reminded him of flying; the rhythm of his breathing was similar, counting wingbeats over a distance. He remembered soaring over the battlefield a week and a lifetime ago, seeing the men and creatures strewn below like children’s toys. He could feel the burble in the air ahead of him where Barzha’s wings had cut the air, and the innate minute adjustments of each feather to get the best lift. He breathed in, smelling the excitement of battle instead of the dusty blend of herbs and chemicals that surrounded him in the workroom. He held the breath, feeling the pressure of the air beneath him as he soared, and let it out with the imagined force of a downward wingbeat. With that peaceful feeling once again in every limb, he blinked his eyes open to see Numair watching him. If he still had them, the feathers on his back would’ve ruffled up with annoyance. 

“Where did you learn that?” The mage asked. He had tied his black curls back with a ribbon today, so his long-nosed face was plain to see, but the expression on it was still hard to read. 

“I was a mage too,” Rikash reminded him, bitingly. “Our magic might not be like yours, but that doesn’t mean we’re less skilled.” 

“Our magic?” Numair asked, ignoring Rikash’s warning glare. “What you were doing there wasn’t anything I’ve seen Stormwings do. Although I’ve never seen one sit still long enough to try.”

“And you’re not likely to, the way your kind hurl fire and magic nets at us,” Rikash countered. All the peace of his meditation had burned away. Forgetting, he reached for the gold fire in his chest to give the tall, arrogant human mage an up-close demonstration. The absence of his magic felt like the turbulence on the edge of a thermal, a physical lurch that left him wobbling on the stool, startled into silence. 

“That was meditation,” Numair continued peaceably once Rikash had settled again. “Human mages use it to control and focus their - our - power.”

“Daine practiced with me last night,” Rikash confessed, feeling off-balance and vulnerable. “Our power?”

“The Graveyard Hag has more sense of humor than even I expected,” Numair said, crossing the room to sit nearer to Rikash. “And I grew up under her influence. She’s made you mortal, human, and Gifted.” 

Rikash was doubtful. “I reached for my magic, and it was gone,” he argued. 

Numair nodded, considering this. “Nevertheless, I can see your Gift, all tangled up but definitely there. When you were meditating, it began to untangle itself into a more useful shape. May I?”

The mage dabbed a fingerprint of herb-scented oil on each of Rikash’s eyelids. “Now, when you look around, you’ll see magic more easily, without drawing on your own Gift. Yesterday, when you were stressed, you could see it without help.” 

When Rikash looked around now, the workroom sparkled with black fire. There were spells on every surface, from the doors to the pages of the books. Numair glowed, the fire filling his skin exactly. Rikash looked down at himself, and saw traces of pale green fire licking along his hands, arcing off his skin like lightning. It was vastly different from the well of gold magic he’d known before, but it was beautiful. The Hag hadn’t left him entirely powerless. He closed his eyes, wiping away the oil and unexpected tears together. 

Numair watched him curiously. There was no judgement in it; it was impersonal, as though Rikash were a puzzle to be figured out. He stood and wrapped the feather back into its cloth shroud, careful to cover the edges.

“That’s enough mage talk for one morning,” Numair said briskly. “Come with me.”

Bewildered, Rikash followed without questioning. 

The unlikely pair made their way to the smith’s forge. Despite the autumn sunshine, the air was cool, so the heat of the forge was welcome. Rikash wasn’t listening to the conversation, but it snapped back into his awareness as Numair handed the feather over to the smith. His alarm must’ve shown on his face, because the smith raised a calming hand to his shoulder. 

“I’ll just make a hilt for it, so you don’t slice your hand off next time,” the smith assured him. “Won’t harm it a bit. Not even sure I could.”

“You’ll need a way to defend yourself, likely,” Numair explained as they walked towards the stables. “That blade is better than most, and you’re familiar with it. Besides, there’s powerful battle magic that can be learned with a sword that’s magically linked to you.”

Rikash stopped where he stood, looking at the mage in disbelief. “I won’t be a soldier for you,” he said firmly. Numair looked taken aback. 

“I thought you’d be wanting to get back to the familiar,” Numair said, hesitantly. “You were a soldier before, with Ozorne and then with us.”

“Not with you,” Rikash spat, “with my queen, and for my clan. Stormwings exist to prevent mortal wars, not continue them.” 

Numair tried to interject, perhaps even to apologize, but Rikash continued. “We fight for our honor, for our place in the clan, or for the joy of it. You mortals slaughter one another in droves like cattle, for some rich noble’s power. Feeding us your lives, your fear and your bodies...I won’t fight for you,” he repeated, and continued up the path to the stable without looking back. After a pause, Numair followed, his long strides bringing him quickly alongside Rikash again. 

“I’m sorry,” Numair said quietly. “I manage to convince myself to forget, between every war, how terrible it is. Everything I’ve ever read led me to believe that your kind enjoy the battles.”

Rikash looked at the ground as he walked, watching the toes of his boots grow dry and pale with dust as the road dried in the sunshine. “I did. It’s what I was created to do. But I don’t have to enjoy it anymore.” 

Daine, in the stable, watched the two men coming up the road. She was grooming her grey pony, Cloud, and the mare nipped her just above the elbow. _Staring is rude,_ the pony remarked.

“So’s biting,” Daine replied, but she was still distracted. Numair had his hair pulled neatly back and looked almost elegant in his plain shirt and trousers, all his sharp angles hidden by the tough fabrics. Both men were looking at the ground, deep in conversation. Rikash was shorter, heavily muscled where Numair was lean, and wore his borrowed clothes with the carelessness of a boy. 

_Stick to your own kind,_ Cloud remarked darkly. _He’s still a Stormwing, no matter what pretty skin he’s wearing._

“You’re the one told me to give him a chance,” Daine shot back, but she turned away from the men to run a comb through the pony’s mane. “I would’ve shot him on sight, back then.”

The pony snorted sharply. _It’s one thing killing someone who hasn’t hurt you, and another to invite a hunter into your herd. If he comes near me, I’ll bite him,_ she promised, clicking her considerable yellow teeth together. 

Daine glared at the pony, and pulled on the halter to make sure the mare was paying attention. “My mother was friends with him in the Divine Realm when he was still a Stormwing. So don’t you dare bite him, hunter or no!”

Numair and Rikash walked up as she finished talking, and she blushed and dropped the comb. Although neither of them mentioned her one-sided conversation, Rikash stayed far back from the sturdy grey pony, looking uncharacteristically shy. Cloud pinned her ears to her skull and showed him her teeth behind Daine’s back. The stable dogs didn’t take to him either, but as Daine showed him around, a sleek brown rat watched him from the rafters.


	5. Connections

Numair was bent over his workbench, writing fiercely with his hair in an unkempt curtain around his face. He looked as though he’d been awake all night, which was likely true. He roused when Rikash set down the carafe of coffee he’d brought as a shield against the early hour. Rikash poured two mugs and slid one across the workbench. Numair grabbed it, gulped the steaming coffee, then turned on his stool to look at Rikash. Daine settled on a cushion on the floor, quickly surrounded by the usual parade of assorted creatures.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Numair said. A recording spell hung over their heads, so the mage could focus only on the conversation, and worry about writing later. “Tell me about how Stormwings are born.”

“When a female Stormwing and a male Stormwing love one another very much,” Rikash muttered sarcastically, then sighed in the bitter, dusty air of the workroom. Numair waited.

”It’s difficult for us to have children at all,” Rikash began again.

The Stone Tree clan nested among cliffs, taking their name from the twisted, ancient trees that clung in crevices in the rock face. The site was rarely used, likely not at all since the wards on the Divine Realms had so recently fallen. When a female did manage to conceive, the flock returned to their ancestral home and cleared it of whatever animal residents had trespassed over the years. Because leadership of the flock was passed down by mortal combat, there were no cultural restrictions on breeding. Stormwings were free to pair off with one another, and to drop those bonds again at will. Relationships might last a day or a millenia; Rikash steered carefully away from any personal inquiry here, although he saw Daine’s curiosity. The nests were bare on ledges in the cliff face, the clutch of eggs warmed by magic. The entire clan contributed to keeping the magic flowing; if by chance more than one female laid an egg, they would combine the clutch. 

“Are Stormwings precocial?” Numair asked. Daine looked puzzled, so he explained. “Able to care for themselves at birth, like a chicken.”

Rikash shook off the insult with difficulty and said only a little sharply that they were not. Hatchlings emerged covered in pale silvery down, but with all their tiny steel teeth and talons sharp and ready. Daine shuddered at the image, trying not to imagine how baby Stormwings were fed, but Numair was all academic intensity. Stormwing infancy was short and vicious. The first infant to hatch would likely be the only survivor. While the others fought to escape their shells, the eldest would instinctively kick and roll any unhatched siblings off the ledge. If another did hatch, they clawed and bit one another at any opportunity. Rikash separated a tiny curved ulna from one of his braids, marked by needle thin teethmarks like a puppy’s chew toy. 

“One of my siblings,” he said casually, offering the bone for closer inspection. Daine took it, fascinated. The bone was pale and brittle, striated with fine silver lines.

“How can the adults let their children murder one another?” Numair asked, faintly green as though he were seasick. 

Rikash shrugged. “The strongest survive, which makes the flock stronger.”

He twined the bone back into his hair as he continued. Unlike many other clutches, his had two survivors. When the weather grew warmer and their feathers changed from down to steel, Rikash and his sister, Zusha, remained on the ledge. They learned to fly together, instinctual animosity fading. At midsummer’s full moon, they were considered full members of the flock, and given their names. Again, he moved the story quickly along, so he wouldn’t be required to explain his own. First names were often in remembrance of Stormwings who had fallen in battle, or honorably in a duel. There were other names that had been banned: those of traitors or cowards.

“Jokhun is now one of those,” he said with some satisfaction, remembering the scheming, dishonorable king. “And there will never again be a Stormwing named Ozorne.”

“That’s a relief,” Daine said dryly. “One was more than enough.”

It was noon already, so a servant brought them food. Rikash was startled by how often humans ate. They called Stormwings ravenous, but needed to be fed three times each day. He said so, earning a laugh from Daine. Numair was too busy with his cold pie to argue.

“This is a ridiculous way to get around,” Rikash complained, halfway to the river. The meager breeze blew hot and dry, bringing dust up in puffs from the road. Summer had gotten a second wind and come on with a vengeance, and Daine took to swimming in the river in the afternoons. After days of seeing her return looking cool and refreshed, Rikash succumbed to his curiosity and the heat. She had invited him along every day, but still looked pleasantly surprised when he accepted. They were on foot; Daine had said it was a beautiful day for a walk, and anyway he didn’t know how to ride.

“It’s not so bad.” Daine looked up to the sky, watching a hawk circle on a thermal. A faint sheen of sweat marked her brow and the collar of her shirt. “But I know what you mean.”

Unexpectedly, he felt the full weight of his lost life again, the grief welling up.  Rikash looked away from Daine and coughed, trying to choke back the lump in his throat.  It came on at strange times, made worse by knowing that no one else understood. To most of the castle, he was just Daine and Numair’s foreign friend: a little strange, perhaps, but unremarkable compared to his famous and eccentric hosts.  He’d been in the castle for a little over a week . It was long enough to learn that her habit of wearing a shirt and breeches was considered odd, and also that most of the city folk recognized that was the least of her oddness. She’d left the blue dragonet at home, but the occasional bird darted to her shoulder as they walked, or she got the far-off look that meant she was speaking in her mind to some shyer creature. 

On the bank of the river, he stripped off his tunic as she did, and rolled up the legs of his trousers. He sat on the bank, tentatively putting his feet into the water. The river was cool but slow-moving here, where it had been dammed into a pool. Small round stones covered the riverbed and trees clung to the bank, roots exposed, casting welcome shade after the heat of the road. Daine disappeared underwater, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting nervously for her to resurface. She was gone only moments, rising to float on her back. A group of otters appeared, bringing her gifts of pretty rocks and shellfish. The girl smiled, watching their sleek forms as they rolled through the water. Rikash was less enthralled, and lay back on the bank to watch the clouds through the branches overhead. 

The sound of the water over the rocks was hypnotic, in the afternoon shade, and he felt himself drifting off. The otters chirped and splashed in the river, and the hawk screamed from far away. Lost in the moment, Rikash flinched when Daine stood over him. Drops of cold water spattered him as she combed through her curls with her fingers, and he held up his hands to block them. 

“You’re supposed to get in the water,” Daine teased him. “You might like swimming more than walking.” She took his hands and pretended to try to pull him up. 

“I don’t swim,” he said with certainty. He resisted her pull and she lay beside him instead, close enough that their arms just brushed. 

Rikash turned to look at her and she raised herself up on one elbow, facing him. 

“How did you get these?” Daine asked, placing her fingertips on three scars just above his hips. “Wasn’t this protected by feathers?” 

He nodded, looking down at her fingers where they rested on his skin. Any touch was still unexpected, and she was usually cautious because of Numair’s unnecessary jealousy.

“My nest-sister is from a lesser family,” he explained. “They were proud to have a child, of course, and she had won out over hatchlings from several noble families. I think she took my survival alongside her as a personal insult. She’s been trying to correct the problem ever since.”

Daine was watching him with the expression of mingled disgust and fascination she always had when he spoke of his Stormwing life. “Your own sister did that to you?”

Rikash laughed. “Zusha has called me out so many times it’s a wonder either of us is still alive.” 

“So, you’ll face down your murderous sister but you’re afraid of a little water?” Daine stood and tugged on his hands, and this time he followed her. 

The small stones rolled underfoot, and the mild current tugged at his legs as the water rose. The cool water brought goosebumps to his arms, and he shivered despite the heat. His instincts fought each step forward, but Daine’s calm presence reassured him. She taught him to float, and he was surprised to find that he enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness. Her otter friends rippled through the water around them, squeaking and growling at one another. Once she was certain he wasn’t going to drown, she transformed and joined them. 

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Rikash couldn’t stop himself from asking as they walked back to the castle in the twilight. 

Daine looked puzzled. “We’re friends.”

“We weren’t,” Rikash argued, hunger and fatigue lowering his usual level of circumspection. “When I was a Stormwing, you barely tolerated me.”

Daine’s pace slowed. She skimmed her hand over the tall grasses they walked through, avoiding his gaze. “I cried for you,” she admitted quietly. “When you died.”

Rikash froze. He hadn’t expected to be mourned. Even for supposed immortals, all stories ended in death. Stormwings knew that better than anyone. Daine stopped beside him, laying a hand on his arm. 

“I’d cared for you and didn’t even know, until it was too late. And then you showed up as a human, and I didn’t know what to think.” The girl’s face was so honest and vulnerable that he impulsively gave her a hug. She stiffened for a moment in surprise, then squeezed him back. 

“Thank you,” Rikash said. 

Daine pulled back to see his face. “What for?”

“Caring.” They started walking again, comfortably side by side. 

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he said casually after a few minutes. The castle wall loomed over them, silhouetted against the dusk. “Stormwings have enemies, allies, and lovers, but never friends.”

“That’s awful,” Daine replied, with simple sincerity. He’d never thought it was a bad thing before, but then you couldn’t miss what you’d never had. The girl tugged gently on one of his braids, still damp from the river. “Who did these then? You couldn’t have done it yourself before, with talons.” 

He could’ve argued, but she knew firsthand the dexterity of bird feet. Instead he shook his head, swallowing a rush of sorrow for the second time that day. Daine lowered her hand. 

“Another time,” Rikash promised. 

That night, he dreamed. At least, he supposed it was a dream; he never remembered having one before. In the dream, Barzha was perched at eye level with an old, one-eyed woman whose shock of grey hair was defeating the confines of a dingy headscarf. 

“You did it,” Barzha insisted, “so you can undo it.” 

The old woman grinned, planting her walking stick firmly on the ground between them. “Would you rather see him dead than mortal, little queen?”

Barzha’s talons dug into her perch until the wood creaked from the pressure.

“Yes!” she cried finally, when the old woman only watched her in silence. “He had died an honorable death, and you brought him back as prey!” She spat the final word, every steel feather on her body standing on end with a screech of metal on metal. The old woman brought out a silver dice cup from nowhere and rattled it in the Stormwing queen’s face. 

“I’ll toss you for it,” the Graveyard Hag cackled. The look of contempt on Barzha’s face would have silenced anyone else. 

“Queens don’t gamble,” Barzha hissed. “And everyone knows you’re a cheat.”

“Too right, dearie,” the Hag admitted cheerily. “So let’s just assume I’ve won. Lord Rikash remains both alive and mortal, counterintuitive though that may be. And you stick to battles you can win.” She prodded at Barzha with her walking stick until the queen was forced off her perch into the air. 

The Hag looked at Rikash, in his dream, and shook the dice cup at him.

The rattling that woke him, though, wasn’t dice, but rain. It beat on the slate roof of the guard’s shelter on the wall, where he had gone to sleep. He couldn’t manage the soft strangeness of the feather mattress in the room he’d been given, or the close air inside the castle. It smelled constantly of other people, of cooking food, of damp and smoke and animals. Out on the wall, even in the rain, he felt more at ease. After the first few nights, the guards left a blanket for him in the shelter. He slept outside under the stars when it was clear, and inside on nights like this one, when the rain rattled down like dice. 

The strangeness of the last thought gave him pause, remembering his dream. The guard was finishing a patrol of his segment of the wall, and returned, shaking water from his oilskin cape. 

“Is there a shrine to the Graveyard Hag in the castle?” Rikash asked, startling the guard. 

“I thought you were asleep! It’s two hours yet until sunrise.” The man hung his oilskin on a hook by the open doorway and then remembered there had been a question. “Yes, I think so. Forgot you were Carthaki. You don’t look like it, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m not Carthaki,” Rikash said.

“Sure, and you’re not a noble either, for all your fine clothes and the company you keep. One of these days you’ll have to let me know what you are, so I know how’s proper to talk to you on these long nights.” 

Rikash smiled. This man was the best company he’d found, outside of Daine. There was no way he would ruin their easy conversations with the complicated truth of who he was. “I’m a retired soldier, and that’s good enough,” he answered, putting a hand out the opposite doorway to feel the rain. The cut from his feather had left a numb scar across his palm, and the absence of feeling made the rain tickle. 

“Sure,” the guard agreed again lazily. “Only soldiers don’t retire before they’re thirty. Most soldiers don’t retire at all, just end up toys for Stormwings.” 

Rikash jerked his head around to look at the man’s face before he could stop himself. 

The guard smiled calmly, looking away, out into the rain. “I’m not stupid, and I keep my ear to the ground,” he continued. “I’ve known who you were since that first morning. Saw your face at plenty of battles before that.” 

Rikash didn’t know what to say, so he pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders, and slid down the wall to sit where it was dry. 

“See, it’s when you look like that it’s easy to remember what you were,” the guard informed him. “When you’re all dressed up and walking around, even I think I’m crazy sometimes for thinking it.”

“Maybe you are,” Rikash answered, but there was no malice in his voice, only surprise. “How can you be so friendly to me, knowing what I was?”

The man frowned in thought, his profile illuminated by a low magelight. “We’re not friends,” he answered finally, and laughed, turning to offer his hand. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Rory.”

“Rikash,” he answered, rising again to shake the guard’s hand. “Moonsword.”

“Moonsword?” The guard asked, and Rikash shook his head.

“My family was a bit sentimental. I could change it, now I’m not one of them, but I haven’t come up with anything I like better.”

“Very well then, Rikash Moonsword. Doesn’t matter who your family was. Mine taught me to judge a man by his character.” The guard grinned and his tone lightened. “Besides, who else is going to keep me company during a storm like this one?”

His days at the castle fell into a routine. After breakfast with Daine near sunrise, Rikash reported to the training field. Thanks to his new friend Rory, he learned the basics of human combat. He needed to know how to defend himself, now that he couldn’t rely on talons and steel feathers. Humans used sword, bow, and fists, and so he practiced among the guards. They were amused at first by his utter lack of coordination and skills.

“Did you never even fight as a child?” Rory laughed, the first time Rikash tried sparring with him. 

“Not with my fists,” he responded cheerfully, and tried again. The daily practice made him more accustomed to his body, and the more at ease he was with himself, the better he fought. He enjoyed archery, appreciating the strain of the bowstring against the muscles of his back, neglected since he lost his wings. The movements were repetitive, meditative. Pull, hold, and release, followed by the thump of the arrow into the target. Swordplay was second nature, aside from the complicated footwork. His strikes were faster than any of the guards could parry, and after one sparring match with wooden staves, his friend Rory remarked that maybe he’d been a soldier after all.

Afternoons found him in Numair’s workroom, often with Daine as well. There was much to learn about his human Gift, which worked differently and had many more rules than the magic he had known so well as a Stormwing. Numair, of course, wanted to know everything about Stormwing magic, customs, and culture, in order to write a definitive natural history. Rikash couldn’t imagine that anyone else would want to read it, so there was no harm in humoring the mage. He answered the magical questions honestly and as thoroughly and at length as he could manage. Knowledge of Stormwing magic wouldn’t do Salmalin any good anyway, except as a curiosity. He’d decided to hedge a bit on the more personal questions: not lying precisely, but giving shallow answers. Centuries of experience warned him not to give the mage too much information on his clan. They were allies now, but his Stormwing family could live for millenia. Humans becoming too familiar with their habits could be deadly, when the peace broke, as it surely would. 

They spent evenings on the wall or whatever other quiet spot Daine chose for meditation practice. Now, when he closed his eyes and fell into the breathing cycle, he could see his own magic pooled and quiet in his chest. Less and less of it strayed to arc from his skin, and he could see other magics as he had before. Daine and Numair seemed pleased with his progress, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all just waiting for something to happen. Sometime in the midst of these busy, peaceful days, he realized he would die long before any of his family. He didn’t speak of it, but the knowledge festered.

At the third full moon after his supposed death, he dreamed of the dueling ground. In front of the nesting cliff lay a space of barren sand, pale in the moonlight, half encircled by blighted trees. The surviving members of Stone Tree clan perched there, watching as a red-haired female spiraled up into the air and declared her challenge against Rikash. A rustling rose from below, as members of the flock shifted uncomfortably, but Rikash wasn’t there, and no one else dared to meet her challenge. Queen Barzha’s crown of black glass glittered as she scanned the flock, looking for any dissenters.

“Rikash is dead!” the female screamed. “I did not slay him, but I claim his place! Who will challenge my right?”

This time, there was silence. Barzha flew up to join the other female, and they circled the dueling ground side by side. On the second pass, Hebakh joined them, and on the third the entire flock took to the air. The red-haired female grinned at him with sharp, glittering teeth as she passed, and he awoke with her name on his lips. Zusha. 


	6. Zusha

One month earlier:

  
The high, mournful sound of keening prickled Zusha’s feathers. She rolled her eyes. Barzha was entirely too sentimental for a queen. They were bound to lose Stormwings in a battle like this, but it was worth it. The survivors would feast for days, and death would come to all of them in the end; there was no reason to make a fuss. Speaking of death: she returned her attention to the rich currents of pain and fear in the air around her. The smoke creature had vanished, but the terror it left behind rippled through the soldiers below her, adding texture to the constant tapestry of suffering. Zusha breathed deeply, savoring the strength that their pain brought to her wings. She felt ablaze with it and shivered in pleasure as she descended. 

Her lover of the moment spiraled down across from her, landing beside a soldier who was not quite yet a corpse. The mortal’s remaining eye was wide with fear, the dark skin of his face swollen and bruised where it wasn’t streaked with blood. He moaned when he saw the two Stormwings, too far gone to fight or scream. His mortal terror spread around him like a mist and Zusha grinned, breathing it in. Her lover hopped closer, tipping her head to look the dying man in the face. He wore the colors of the enemy, not that it would’ve made a difference. 

“Was it worth it?” Felka hissed at him, baring her sharp silver teeth. The man moaned again and Zusha stepped onto his chest, talons digging in. His moan faded into a gurgle under her weight and then he was gone. The other Stormwing leaned down in a mockery of grief and kissed his cheek, smearing her lips through the blood that trickled from his mouth. Zusha watched her, Desire humming through her already over-stimulated body. Felka glanced up at her with a smile, tossing the long fringe of her bangs out of her fierce dark eyes. Zusha lifted a talon, bright with blood, and painted two parallel lines down the other Stormwing’s bare chest. Once she was marked in kind, the pair took off again, leaving the corpse with his chest raked to ribbons. 

It wasn’t until two days later that Zusha noticed Rikash was missing. She scanned the flock as they settled for the night on trees around the battlefield. He normally stood out, with his bright blond hair in those braids. Few other Stormwings flaunted a weakness like that. Night fell and the red glow from the pyres of enemy dead lit their metal wings as the latecomers crossed the field. Perhaps Barzha had sent her favorite pet on some errand or other. Zusha decided not to care. Felka landed beside her, setting the branch bobbing up and down. Zusha kissed her, and they pressed their foreheads together. 

“Have you seen my brother?” Zusha asked, despite herself. The other Stormwing drew back, sidling along the branch. 

“Since when do you care?” Felka snipped. 

Zusha’s feathers clicked against one another, pulling in close to her body with annoyance. “I don’t. But if he’s gone, that means his position is open.”

Felka laughed. “He’s gone. Weak, mortal-loving thing that he was. I heard he died saving them.”

Zusha gritted her teeth. He’d always been an embarrassment, without even the courtesy to die well. But it must’ve been true; Felka wouldn’t have dared to say that if he were still alive. For all his other faults, Rikash could not be beaten in aerial combat. Zusha bore enough scars to attest to that. 

A male voice spoke up from the darkness below them. “It’s worse than that,” he said with vicious delight. “I heard he got turned into a mortal himself!”

The two females looked at each other, uncertain. 

“If that was a joke, it was in poor taste,” Zusha replied icily. She could hear the male’s branch creak as he shifted from foot to foot. 

“Have some respect,” her lover added. “They were nest-siblings.”

The male voice was silent. The lack of apology rankled, and Zusha dropped down onto his branch, landing with her head low and wings mantled. 

“Apologize for your slander,” Zusha hissed. “Or I’ll see you at the next full moon’s challenge.”

The male stood tall, sharp teeth bared and glinting in the distant firelight. “I’m no liar,” he insisted. “Hebakh told me himself. He saw it happen.”

Felka dropped down on him, talons screeching off the feathers of his back. The male spread his wings and glided into the darkness, leaving his strange news behind him. Zusha found herself wakeful that night, watching as the red of the pyres faded into the glow of sunrise. 

Two months passed, and the flock moved from place to place around the mortal world. Stormwings came and went on the queen’s bidding or their own impulses, but Rikash never returned. Zusha pondered her nest-brother’s disappearance. The idea, once planted, refused to leave. It was impossible for him to have been turned mortal, but it was too crazy to have been made up. After the second full moon, she decided to speak to Barzha herself. 

The queen was half-asleep on the wing, gliding along on a stiff wind. Zusha maneuvered beside her and waited to be acknowledged. Barzha let her wait. They were flying north, returning to their nesting cliff in the far north of the kingdom. As far as Zusha knew, none of the other females were broody, although not for lack of trying, so this trip was as aimless as all the others. Without any mortal battles to draw them, and with so few Stormwings allowed in the mortal realm at all, the entire world was theirs. The only limits were the speed of their wings and their own whims. Zusha closed on the queen’s wingtip to feel the vortex of air behind it twist her own primaries. Barzha finally looked back at her.

“What’s on your mind, Zusha?” The queen asked lazily, flexing her wings to drop back beside the red-haired Stormwing. 

“There are some vacancies in the clan,” Zusha began. The queen nodded, the fine lines around her eyes deepening. Her clan had been sadly diminished by the schism with Ozorne and the other Stormwing leaders, and then again by the battles. 

“Thank you for bringing that to my attention,” Barzha said coolly. Zusha felt herself flush despite the cool air rushing over her skin. 

“There’s a rumor going around about Lord Rikash,” Zusha said in a rush. “It’s ridiculous, I didn’t give it any credence. But you should know: they’re saying he was turned into a mortal man.”

Barzha was silent for just a beat too long. “It took you long enough to notice he was gone,” she said with bitter humor. 

“It can’t be true!” Zusha burst out, feeling her wings tremble. Barzha hushed her, looking over her shoulder at the flock. 

“Don’t pretend, Zusha.” The queen pitched her voice low. “I know you had no love for your nest-brother, but he was an honored member of this clan. You’re only interested in his position. Know this: I won’t speak against you, but neither will I back your claim.”

“But how did it happen?” Zusha asked, a foreign emotion sending bile into her throat.

Barzha’s eyes glinted beneath their protective membrane, unblinking against the wind. “There is no risk of it happening to you,” she said shortly, and angled her wings to soar away. Zusha lingered while the clan turned and descended towards the line of cliffs, needing a moment to regain her composure alone. They spiraled down below her, the afternoon sun on their wings sending sparks of light dancing along the dark cliff face. 

The clan spent the autumn in the cliffs and forests around Dunlath. At the next full moon, Zusha challenged for Rikash’s position, and as promised, Barzha allowed it. No one else spoke against Zusha or challenged her in return, and she was left feeling foolish. She could’ve held the rank sooner, if she had been bolder. The clan had probably been laughing behind her back. Barzha offered none of the closeness Zusha had observed between the queen and Rikash, but trust took time to build. She let it go, doing her best to prove herself. 

The beginning of winter found her on the wall of the keep at Dunlath, sneering at the human guard who was trying to keep his breakfast down. The idiot kept his post downwind, and she could see him retching. Zusha shuffled her wings with a clatter to make the guards flinch, enjoying the thin ribbon of fear that rippled along the wall. Barzha and Hebakh perched beside her, waiting for the Lady Maura to emerge. Hebakh shot Zusha an irritated glare and she smoothed her feathers down, face carefully blank. 

The lady of the keep was nothing but a little girl, plump and guileless. Zusha couldn’t believe the queen had allowed this child to keep her waiting. The girl curtsied without a hint of fear.

“Lady Maura,” the Stormwing queen inclined her head in greeting, and Zusha hissed in a breath. The queen ignored her dismay. 

“Queen Barzha, of the Stone Tree clan,” Maura said, smiling. “It’s good to see you again, your highness.” 

Barzha nodded, as though that were to be expected. Zusha fumed. The mortals should run in terror, not greet Stormwing queens as equals. Not for the first time, she regretted her decision to stay with the clan instead of joining Ozorne’s contingent. Of course, if she’d done that, she’d likely be dead. Or locked back in the Divine Realm if she was lucky. 

“My clan has taken up our traditional residence in the cliffs north of here.” Barzha was saying. “As the lands are, by mortal estimation, within your borders, I’ve come in friendship, with hopes of creating an understanding between our people.”

“I have the same hope,” Maura said. “Thank you for coming to speak with me. Your clan is welcome here.”

Zusha couldn’t decide what was worse, the queen pretending she had to ask this mortal for the clan’s right to roost wherever they wanted, or the child thinking she had the power to allow it. She chipped at the mortar between the stones of the wall with her talons and stopped listening. Humiliation and anger boiled in her blood. Finally, the mortal curtsied again, and Barzha took off. Zusha raised her tail and left a streak of dung down the wall before following the queen and her consort. Hebakh pulled up, blocking her way. 

“You’ll stay here.” Hebakh ordered, sounding more petulant than commanding. Zusha looked past him to the queen, whose wingbeats hadn’t faltered as she steadily distanced herself.

“What?” Zusha asked. “Why?” 

Hebakh’s mouth twitched in a smile. “The queen needs you here, as a messenger to the Lady Maura.”

“A messenger!” The humiliation she’d felt vicariously on the wall roared back to full strength. “I earned my place with the queen!”

“You serve the queen,” Hebakh said with cold precision. “She says stay, you stay.”

Zusha backwinged fiercely, calling on her magic to hover in place as the queen and her consort returned to the cliffs and the waiting clan. She watched until they disappeared into the ground clutter, but they never looked back.

Lady Maura had waited on the wall for Zusha to return. She didn’t flinch when Zusha landed beside her, although the guards shuffled uneasily with their hands on their weapons. Zusha snarled at them, then bowed her head reluctantly to the lady of the keep. 

“Lady Zusha, it’s an honor to meet you,” Maura said. The child sounded sincere. 

“Yes,” Zusha agreed. “It is.” She had a vague memory of the supposed lady being carried around by Rikash in a sling. Surely even Barzha couldn’t expect her to stoop so low. This pandering to the mortals was becoming ridiculous. 

“I trust you’ll be comfortable here.” Maura pointed to the courtyard inside the wall. A low shed had been built there, with a heavy perch long enough for three Stormwings. “Several of your clan stayed here before, when I was a child.”

It seemed as though the mortal expected her to have polite conversation. She’d soon learn. Zusha plummeted off the wall into the courtyard, catching herself at the last second to swoop onto the perch, her back to this Lady Maura. Barzha could order her to stay here, but she couldn’t force her to act like these mortals were anything but prey. 

The days dragged on, and Zusha waited for something to happen. She heard nothing from the flock, and after several tries at conversation Lady Maura gave up. At first, Zusha entertained herself by frightening the townsfolk. She’d been forbidden to actually hurt anyone, but their yelps and screams amused her. But closeness breeds contempt, if not familiarity, and soon they ignored her completely. The walls of the keep closed in around her. She’d never been alone before, not like this. Even in the Divine Realm, she had the clan, and there had been myriad other immortals and small gods to torment. In Dunlath, she drew in on herself, watching the mortals in their daily lives and growing hungrier and more resentful each day. 


	7. Only Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some non-explicit adult content. If that’s not for you, skip the first quarter or so.

Rikash left the castle the morning after his strange dream, walking out into the forest without speaking to anyone. He looked up into the oldest, heaviest trees, searching for signs of his clan, but found only scarred branches. The flock was lying low, far away from the capital. Everything was cold and still; everyone had moved on, except him.

He walked back to the castle in the first snow of the year, feeling the heavy, wet flakes settle in his hair. The maid looked startled when he asked her, but she brought out her sewing scissors and cut away his long braids. With each snip of her scissors, he felt a heaviness settle in his chest. It worked its way up his throat into his eyes, spilling over as tears. He let them fall silently, trailing cool lines down his cheeks. The maid pretended not to notice. 

When she had finished, his hair was cut close to the scalp on the sides, like a soldier’s. She bundled up the shorn hair, and the bone decorations with it, into a bundle for the garbage. Rikash pretended he didn’t care. The clan was gone, and those were mementos of someone else’s life. 

Without turning around in his chair, Rikash asked the maid to leave. Her footsteps went across the room, and he heard the door close quietly. He rested his head in his hands, feeling the soft prickle of the cropped strands of hair against his fingertips. Then other fingers traced along the length of his neck, and he felt her warm breath as she wrapped her arms around him. The maid rested her head on his shoulder, stroking his arms, and after a moment he leaned back into her embrace. 

“Your clothes are wet from the snow,” she said softly after a few moments, releasing him. “You must be cold.”

As she said it, he realized it was true. Doubly so now, without the warmth of her arms around him. She knelt at the hearth and lit the kindling waiting there. When the flames crackled to life, she rose and took his hands, drawing him over into the firelight. He protested, but she hushed him, unlacing his damp tunic and easing it over his head. His shirt went next. The maid stroked her hands down the bare skin of his chest, tracing the ridges of scars he’d earned before Tortall was even a kingdom. 

Rikash laid his hands over hers, stopping her. She knew nothing about him. If she were a Stormwing, he would have courted her with stories of his life before her, and convinced her how much better their futures might be together. The maid took his hands in silence and led him toward the high bed, and he let her. She sat him down and stood back for a moment, and he thought she might leave. He wanted desperately to be alone. He needed her to stay. Her head gave a tiny nod, as though she had ended some internal argument; and then she cupped his face in her hands and pressed her lips gently to his. She was warm and soft, and tasted faintly of cider and spices. His hands rose to her waist, pulling her closer. He could feel the pressure of her hips against the inside of his thighs, the heat of her body through her heavy wool gown. 

The maid pulled away, eyes dark and soft in the firelight. His body craved hers in a way he’d almost forgotten, and never expected to feel for a mortal. He rose from the bed to follow her, and she reached for the buttons of his trousers. Again he laid his hands over hers, but she was determined. If she were a Stormwing, he would’ve fought her beneath the full moon to prove his strength. His breeches fell to the floor and she paused, seeing the jagged parallel gashes of talon scars down his abdomen. If she were a Stormwing, she might have left scars like that to show that he would be stronger with her at his side. 

But she wasn’t a Stormwing, and neither was he. So he reached behind her, unlaced the back of her simple gown, and pushed it off her shoulders. The fabric crumpled to the floor, and she unraveled the long braid of her dark hair. Her skin shone white in the weak winter light through the window. When she came closer, he could see the veins faintly through her skin. He remembered other pale bodies, and the things he had done to them. For an instant, he almost made her leave. But then she pushed him back on the bed, and sat astride him, and he didn’t.

The maid slipped out of bed, once their bodies had finished with one another. Her chest was flushed with pink, and her cheeks too. Red ovals marked her neck and breasts where his teeth had pressed into them. He sat up, feeling an unaccustomed pang of guilt and uncertainty. She had seemed so sure of herself, in bed, and looked so fragile now, standing naked on the stone floor. He watched her as she shimmied back into her chemise and dropped her brown wool gown over her disheveled hair. She didn’t meet his eyes, but came over to the bed and turned so her back faced him. The laces of the dress were coarse braided linen. He pulled them snug, tracing the line of her back with his fingers. She braided her hair up again, smiled over her shoulder at him, and turned to the door.

“Wait,” he said, but didn’t know how to continue. The maid paused, and faced him with some impatience.

“What?”

“I don’t even know what to call you.”

One of her dark eyebrows arched. “Do you want to?”

He was taken aback. “I’m Rikash,” he offered, beginning to search the floor for his pants and shirt. She had undressed him, though, and he didn’t know where they had ended up.

“I know,” the maid said, the hint of a laugh curling the corner of her mouth. She turned again and walked out the door. He sat back alone on the bed as the door clicked shut behind her, staring at the heavy wood of the door as if it would provide answers.  


After the maid left, Rikash refused to see anyone for three days. He skipped meditation with Daine. He slept in his own room to avoid Rory, spending most of the nights pacing. He called silently all of one night to the Graveyard Hag, but heard nothing in response. He had never learned the habit of prayer and it didn’t come easily. 

The Hag came to him on the third night, as he slept restlessly on the floor of his room, propped up against the foot of the bed. He’d never slept lying down, and couldn’t seem to get the knack of it. One of his arms was always in the way, and he couldn’t find a way to make his head lie comfortably. The Hag was bundled in what appeared to be half a dozen felted shawls over a gown with more patches and pockets than original fabric, and her hair was cropped short like his own. The old woman sat beside him on the woolen rug that warmed the stone floor, and simply watched him. 

“What?” He hissed at her, angry and sullen.

“I’m waiting to see what you’ll decide,”  the Hag replied cryptically. “I can’t choose for you, dearie.“

“What exactly am I supposed to be deciding?” Rikash clenched his fists in frustration, but the Hag only laughed. 

“You wouldn’t hit an old woman,”  she scolded him, patting his cheek with almost enough force to be called a slap. 

“I’ve done far worse to many old women,” he snarled. 

The Hag laughed again, looking at him fondly, as though he was a misbehaving pet. 

“ Don’t be a tease. Do you have a question, or are you just wasting my time?“

“I don’t know how to be human,”he admitted. “Can I go back to what I was before?”

“ My old bones can’t be on the floor like this.” The Hag grabbed her stick from midair and hauled herself to her feet. “Offer a lady a chair next time, would you?”

“Wait!” he called, rising to his knees. “I need to know.”

The ugly, bent goddess stepped close and took his face in her hands. Her single dark eye scanned his green ones. 

“Time only moves forward, Lord Rikash. The answers are right in front of you. Stop acting like a child.”  Her gnarled hand rasped over the stubble on his cheek. “But aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Don’t worry, dearie. I’ll be back soon to see what you decide.”

Her hands dropped him as she vanished, leaving him kneeling on the floor. The fire had died, because he wouldn’t let the servants in, and the room was so cold that his breath rose in white plumes. He climbed into the tall featherbed, pulled the blankets over himself, and gestured absently at the fireplace. The logs that waited there burst into flame, tinged with pale green in his magical vision. Rikash the Stormwing was gone. It was time to find out who he would become now. 

The next morning, he dressed and went down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. Instead of Daine, as he had expected, Numair waited at his usual table. Steam rose from the mug he cradled between his hands, but he didn’t look as though he’d slept. Rikash knew better than to expect the mage to talk early in the morning, so he sat across from him and ate in silence. Numair’s dark eyes rose gradually from his mug as the coffee revived him. 

“Glad to see you’re still among the living,” Rikash said once the mage made eye contact. 

Numair scowled. “Wish I could say the same.”

“About yourself, or me?”

“I thought for sure you were dead,” Numair said dryly,“or would be once Daine got hold of you.”

Rikash waved this off. “I haven’t seen her yet. I thought she’d be here.” The unspoken, instead of you, hung between them. “I was coming to find you anyway. I’m thinking of becoming a mage.”

Numair choked on his coffee, swearing as the hot liquid splattered the front of his shirt. “I think you’re a little old for the university. They only allow students under the age of eighteen, and you passed that, what, five centuries ago?” He took the napkin Rikash offered to sop up the spilled coffee. 

“You’ll train me, and I’ll invent the credentials later,” Rikash argued easily. 

Numair shook his head. “No. I’ll teach you control, but if you want more I’ll send you to someone else. Someone without our history.”

Rikash went still and cold-eyed. “I am not my history,” he said softly, his voice almost a growl. “Those five centuries you waved so casually at me were lived by someone else.”

“I said our history, not yours,” Numair replied, but his back stiffened and he looked sharply at Rikash. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Daine in the evenings,” he began, pointedly. 

“She’s been an excellent teacher,” Rikash said in his blandest voice. “I do enjoy our time alone together, but you’re welcome to join us. The idea of you sitting in silence for an hour is quite pleasant.”

“Perhaps I will,” Numair replied. His knuckles had turned white from his grip on the mug. “She has many other responsibilities. I could find you another teacher.”

Rikash shrugged. “Daine does what she wants. I didn’t ask for her help.”

Numair sighed and got to the point. “You could ask her to stop.” 

“I won’t. But don’t worry. I can’t imagine being interested in a girl less than half my age.” Rikash ignored the fact that he had effectively excluded all human women. He met Numair’s eyes and was gratified to see anger and jealousy there. “Had you gotten through all the women your own age who would have you?”

Numair shot up off the bench and grabbed the smaller man by the front of his tunic. Pulling Rikash closer, he hissed, “It’s time you found somewhere else to go, you overgrown vulture.”

The room had gone quiet enough to hear water dripping onto the flagstones from an overturned pitcher. Numair looked around and then slowly released his grip. After a long moment, Rikash sat and resumed his breakfast, while Numair stalked out. The mage brushed by Daine as he left. Although she reached out to stop him, Numair avoided her eyes and hurried away. 

After a few moments, Daine sat down beside Rikash, but he could feel the annoyed glances she kept stealing at him. 

“Feather for your thoughts?” He asked coolly. Her big brown eyes widened further. 

“You disappear for days and that’s all you can say?” She kept her voice low, to avoid the attention of the gossipy castle staff, but was clearly furious. “What happened?”

Rikash brushed his fingers through the shaggy, uneven mess of his hair. “I decided to try something new,” he said lightly. Daine scowled. 

“That is not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” she said quietly. 

“I came to say goodbye to you. Pass along my regards to Salmalin.”

Daine’s expression froze. “Goodbye?”

“Yes.” He rose from the bench. Daine followed him along the corridors and up to his room. The maid was leaving, a pile of linens in her arms. she winked at Rikash as she passed them. He paused, holding the door open for Daine, and wondered if he should talk to the maid. But the hem of her skirts had swished around the corner and down the stairs, and Daine was watching him with evident worry. One thing at a time. 

He began to gather his few belongings into a knapsack. Daine chewed on her lower lip anxiously as she paced the length of the small room.

“Where are you going?” 

“I owe Maura of Dunlath a visit. If I don’t leave soon, the passes will be snowed in. And Master Salmalin made it clear I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Numair said that?” Daine looked more startled than he would’ve expected. Surely the girl knew how jealous her lover could be. 

“He did. And he’s right. I’ve imposed on you long enough.”

“You’re not imposing!” Daine argued. “You’re my friend, and Numair needs you for his book. Besides, you’ve earned a place here same as any of us.”

Rikash lifted his pack to his shoulder and reached out to stop Daine’s pacing. Her face was sad, but without the mulish set that he had learned to respect. When it came down to it, she’d let him go. 

“Did you think I could stay here as your guest forever?”

“Not forever,” Daine said softly. 

Not forever, he echoed in his mind. There was no forever for him anymore, just an ever-shortening and uncertain future. Fifty years, if he was lucky. An eye blink. 

When he said nothing, Daine wrapped her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. She tipped her face up to look at him, and stroked the cropped hair above his ear. He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. 

Someone tapped at the door and they broke apart, Daine looking a little flustered. Rikash crossed the room and opened the door to find the maid waiting, carrying a long, narrow object wrapped in cloth. 

“From the smith’s boy,” the maid said, handing the bundle to Rikash. She looked past him at Daine while she spoke, with unconcealed curiosity. 

“Just in time,” Rikash said quietly, unwrapping the cloth to find the bright razor edges of his feather. The maid’s eyes snapped sharply to his, taking in the pack on his shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, but curtsied instead when Daine appeared in the doorway beside him. 

“Thank you,” Rikash said, and the woman could find no excuse to linger. 

He lifted the feather by its new hilt, trying out the feel of it in his hand. The smith had done beautiful work. The pieces of the new sword joined seamlessly, well-balanced and light enough to use easily in one hand. After the weighty, clumsy practice swords he’d been training with, this one felt like an extension of his arm. In his magical vision, the sword glinted with remnants of the smith’s subtle power, and a trace of the gold fire of immortal magic along the center. He reached out to it with his new Gift. The answering surge of power flared along all his muscles and nerves, ending in a dizzying flash behind his eyes that knocked him down to one knee. 

Daine gasped, reaching down to help him up. Hiding his shock as best he could, Rikash offered her the hilt of the feather sword, staying on his knee as though he’d wanted to be there. 

“It’s yours, as am I, if you should ever need me,” he told the wild mage earnestly. She reached out hesitant fingers to the sword, hovering over the leather-wrapped hilt. 

“But you’re still leaving,” Daine said. 

Rikash nodded, and she gave him a hand up instead. They walked together in silence to the stables. Cloud nickered a welcome as they entered, and the rest of the ponies poked their heads out of their stalls to greet Daine. 

Soon, they had readied his usual pony, strapping his pack and a bedroll to the saddle. Rikash took the reins of the calm dun gelding and stroked its neck, avoiding eye contact with Daine. The gelding shuffled as Rikash put a foot in the stirrup, and he knew Daine could ask the horse to refuse his commands. 

“It would be a long walk to Dunlath, but I’ll do it if I have to,” Rikash warned Daine, and she only watched as he kicked the gelding into an easy lope.


	8. Dunlath

He followed the long road north and then east without incident. The feather-bladed sword hung on his hip, and his clothes were plain enough to dissuade thieves, so he met no one along the road except merchants and other travellers. There were inns enough along the way, but he avoided them. He had a bedroll slung on the back of his saddle, and that suited him better, although sleeping on the ground still made him uneasy. He rode from dawn until sundown, and camped well off the road. Each night he cast a protective circle around his hobbled horse and his sleeping space, trailing salt and pale green fire. It wasn’t fear so much as a desire for solitude that prompted his caution. 

At the top of the western pass, he paused, seeing the lake glitter in the distance. He took a deep breath, enjoying the illusion of altitude. The castle that was his destination stood on an island in the middle of the lake. The last time he’d been here, the lady of the castle was ten years old. He had flown with her over these same forests, carrying her in a sling he held in his talons. He had loved her like a daughter, but now, six years later, he wondered if the young woman would even recognize him. 

The village seemed to have prospered. With winter coming on, the homes were tidy and well-kept amidst fallow fields. He could smell bread baking, and saw children playing along the road. The dun gelding trotted gamely along the road to the bridge, where a pair of guards waited. Their pikes were sharp and oiled against the damp, but they asked his name and business without any particular suspicion. 

“Rikash Moonsword, to see the Lady Maura,” he told them. All along the route, he had debated using his true name. She had known him as a Stormwing, though, and cared for him anyway. She deserved his honesty. 

The younger of the guards peered at his face uncertainly. “What sort of name is that?”

“The one my family gave me,” Rikash answered with a shrug. “Is the Lady at home?”

”Maybe she is,” the older guard replied slowly, looking over Rikash’s clothes and taking in the sword by his side. “I’ll walk with you the rest of the way.”

Rikash slid from the gelding without protest, taking the reins in one hand and stretching gratefully. A week in the saddle had left his legs tired and stiff. The guard walked alongside him, waiting to speak until they were nearly across the bridge, where another pair of guards waited at the main gate.

”I knew Rikash Moonsword,” the guard said, stopping with one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Lady Maura was quite fond of him. What are you playing at?”

Rikash was carefully still, keeping his hands away from his belt, where the feather blade rested. He could feel the power and blood in it, calling him to use it. “I am the same man she knew,” he answered calmly. “I’m here to visit, nothing more. I mean her no harm.”

“That creature was no man at all,” the guard said, and whistled shrilly, drawing his sword. The guards by the gate lowered their pikes and hurried forward. Rikash raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out. After the guards restrained his arms and took his sword, two of them led him inside the castle, while the first took the horse back the way they had come. They were quick and efficient; once again, he found himself locked in a stone cell alone. This time, he sat cross-legged to meditate, settling easily into the rhythm of breaths. He amused himself creating small flames with his Gift, and wished he’d convinced Numair to teach him some more useful skills. Lock-picking came to mind, if he was going to continue to spend so much time imprisoned. He was beginning to think that was the standard mortal welcome. After several hours passed with no sign of Maura or any other visitors, he leaned against the damp, mossy wall and fell asleep. 

By his best estimate, it was three full days and another night before a guard roused him, pulling him upright by one arm. The windowless cell had remained consistently dark and chilly, but a guard had brought bread and water each day and replaced the bucket he used as a chamberpot. Rikash was unceremoniously dragged up several flights of stairs and onto a balcony where a young woman sat waiting. Adolescence, or perhaps simply being out from under her sister’s thumb, had been good for Maura, Rikash saw at a glance. Her mousy hair had darkened and gained some shine, gathered into a chignon at her nape. Her gown fitted her well, and the pale blue color helped to change her skin from sallow to pearly. Her round cheeks spoke of good humor and rich foods. The guard pushed him down to one knee, keeping an arm twisted behind his back. Maura frowned.

“That will not be necessary. Please let him stand.”

Rikash rose and bowed. Maura looked intently at his face as he did, the frown creasing her forehead between her eyebrows. A metallic rustling drew Rikash’s eyes just as the wind shifted, bringing the unmistakable odor of a Stormwing. The female had a tangled cloud of reddish gold curls around her face. She shifted foot to foot, peering down at him from her perch on the balcony’s railing. 

“Zusha!” Rikash breathed in surprise.

“I’d heard you were dead, but this is so much better,” the red-haired female said, and laughed unpleasantly. She glanced at Maura. “This man is indeed what’s left of Rikash Moonsword, on my honor.”

“Whatever that’s worth,” the guard muttered. Rikash was inclined to agree with him.

“Thank you, Lady Zusha,” Maura said cooly, expressionless. “You may go.” 

Her gesture of dismissal included the guard, who turned reluctantly to wait inside the door. Zusha sneered at Rikash, fanning her wings. The stench of death and decay blew over Rikash and Maura as she took to the air, but he found himself envying her. He could feel the ghost of the pressure of the air on his primaries with each downstroke and the joy of watching the ground recede and flatten like a tapestry. And then Maura’s arms were around him, and the girl was beaming at him. She had grown so their eyes remained nearly level, as they had been when she was a child and he was still a Stormwing. 

“It’s so good to see you!” Maura exclaimed, sounding very different from the defiant, sulky child he’d first met. She pulled back to look him over. “How is this possible?”

Rikash laughed, happiness at their reunion overriding the bitterness he felt at seeing Zusha again. “That is a very strange story,” he promised, “which I will tell to the best of my ability.”

Over a private breakfast, he explained the battle, and his death and resurrection by the Graveyard Hag. Maura listened intently but asked few questions, content to let him tell the story. It was the first time he’d recounted it in full, and so took some time in the telling.

“What will you do now?” Maura asked simply, when the tale was done. Breakfast had long since been cleared away, but she sipped at some cooling chocolate. This was the question he dreaded.

“I don’t know,” he answered, intending to sound careless. Instead, his voice was low and harsh. Maura let it be.

“Well, you’re welcome here as long as you like.” 

When spring came, Rikash was still at the castle, having made no effort to leave. He was no closer to finding a purpose or direction than he was when he arrived, and although Maura didn’t push him, he could tell she was concerned. She was busy with managing her castle and land, and had plenty of advisors. She didn’t need him, just as Daine and Numair were better off without him. 

One morning soon after the snow melted, the flock appeared, covering the crenellations with Stormwings. They called insults down at the guards who tried to make them leave. Rikash walked out along the wall, silence falling in his wake, save for the click and screech of metal feathers as the Stormwings settled. Dozens of eyes followed him, and he forced himself not to hurry. 

Barzha was perched on the wall, talking to Maura in a low voice. They both watched Rikash intently as he bowed to the queen. Hebakh shifted anxiously, feathers clattering as he crossed and uncrossed his wings.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Hebakh murmured to his queen, but she ignored him, speaking instead to Rikash.

“The humans have attacked us unprovoked,” the dark-eyed, elegant queen began. “This winter, despite an agreement with Lady Maura, the humans killed one of us. We cannot afford to lose anyone else. You, with that wild magic girl and her Gifted mate, will teach the humans to respect us and our ways, before we are forced to retaliate.”

It was not a question, but a demand. Rikash almost agreed, from a reflexive obedience, and then remembered he was no longer her vassal. 

“Lady Veralidaine and Master Salmalín will do as they wish. They have handled similar situations before. You don’t need me.”

Barzha frowned, but Hebakh scowled, spreading his wings threateningly. “It is not a request!” The male’s face was pale and pinched below unsettling grey eyes. 

Rikash laughed bitterly. “You are no longer my master, Lord Hebakh. I owe you nothing. My life is finally my own.”

To his surprise, it was Maura who spoke up next. “You’ve sat around all winter feeling sorry for yourself, Rikash. It’s time to do something useful.”

Barzha nearly smiled. “The humans have already agreed. You will be my liaison, able to go easily among them as I cannot.” She extended a clenched talon, dangling a green stone pendant on a leather cord. He rubbed his thumb over the stylized tree carved into the stone, sighed, and tied the pendant around his neck. Satisfied, the Stormwing queen spread her wings. The flock took off in a clamor. He scanned the group for the bright red-gold cloud of Zusha’s hair but didn’t see her. 

“I’ll see you in Corus,” Barzha informed him. “Your human friends expect you there by the equinox.” She leapt from the wall to rejoin the flock. 

“Who was killed?” Rikash called after Barzha, but she either didn’t hear or didn’t want to answer. The stone hung unreasonably heavy against Rikash’s chest for such a small object. He tried to imagine himself as an ambassador to the humans from the Stormwings. The idea was ridiculous, and yet he was uniquely qualified. He felt an unexpected rise in his spirit, a return of optimism he’d forgotten. 

On his last night in Dunlath, he tossed and turned restlessly in bed, phantom feathers ruffled and prickling along his back and arms. The stone pendant shifted around his neck. He felt as though the tiny weight on its thin leather cord was strangling him. Rikash sat up, shoving the blanket aside, and yanked the pendant so the cord broke. His hair had grown over the winter, uneven shaggy layers down to his shoulders. Without much consideration, he gathered thin sections and began to braid them, pulling his hair away from his face. The ritual, as close to preening as he could come, soothed him. It felt natural to fasten the ends of each braid with bits of the leather cord, and to weave the green stone in among the strands. He lit a candle, resigning himself to wakefulness, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. For the first time in months, he recognized himself immediately. 

Maura rose early to see him off, just after sunrise.

“This is much more like the Rikash I remember,” she said, gently tugging one of the hanging braids. He hugged her, surprising them both. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, unused to the feeling of gratitude. Few enough people had treated him kindly in his centuries of life, and he’d given few cause. Maura squeezed her arms tightly around him and then let him go. 

“We’ll scandalize the castle if we keep this up,” she laughed, but he saw the threat of tears in her eyes. 

“Corus isn’t so far. I’ll visit again soon.”

She looked doubtful, but nodded. He climbed up onto the same dun gelding that had brought him to Dunlath and winked at Maura. 

“The castle could do with some scandal,” he remarked. “You’ve been entirely too good. Find some inappropriate young man to sweep you off your feet.” 

Maura laughed, and Rikash nudged the horse into a trot, away from her, down the bridge. No matter what he said, there was a long journey ahead. But for the first time since he’d attacked the smoke snake, a lifetime ago, he felt purposeful.


	9. Zusha, Part Two

The moment Lady Maura dismissed her, the queen’s order ended, and Zusha felt a pull toward the distant cliffs. Torn between relief and anger, she sulked as she flew back to the clan. The weeks of boredom and humiliation were nearly worth it, just to see the look on Rikash’s face when he’d been kneeling at her feet. She’d longed to defeat him, to see his corpse crumpled on the ground below her, his blood dripping from her talons in the moonlight. But seeing him so weak and powerless, trapped in a mortal body, was almost perfect. She only wished he’d been afraid. Next time they met, she’d make him fear her as all humans should. She’d drink in his terror and feel it strengthen her. Then, when there was nothing more she could take from him, she would kill him and finally be done with it. 

Her muscles sang with joy as she flew, imagining the thousand ways she could hurt him now. Her fantasies of violence and triumph warmed her blood, and she longed for Felka. It had been too long since she’d felt the grip of talons against her skin and the soft yielding contrast of lips against hers. Her body craved the mingled pleasure and pain, and the release that followed. 

The trees opened up into a sandy clearing. She pulled up into a steep climb, skimming the cliff face so that her talons scraped the stone, drawing sparks. Several of the flock circled lazily overhead, riding a weak winter thermal. Zusha scanned them, impatient, but didn’t see Felka. She snagged a bent tree that jutted from the cliff and perched on it, searching the pale grey sky for her lover’s short black hair and elegant narrow wings. A young male stooped on her, beating his wings hard at the last moment to land on a branch beside her. Zusha sneered at him, but he only stretched his long wings overhead and winked at her. 

“Just in time, Zusha. Come fly with me. We’ll add an egg to the nest.”

“Go away, Miska,” she hissed at him, but felt a response in her body. Her belly was tense and heavy, which she had attributed to frustration, but perhaps it was something else. The male shuffled his wings closed, unconcerned by her rejection. 

“Come on. With your viciousness and my good looks, our hatchling couldn’t lose.” Miska tossed his long black hair. Zusha looked him over. Bronze skin, well-scarred from duels, brown almond-shaped eyes with long lashes. He smiled, a flash of sharp silver teeth.

“You know I’m right.”

“I already have a lover,” Zusha said, looking away. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her. “I’m looking for her now.”

Miska shrugged. “So? Come fly with me. When I win, we make a new addition to the flock.”

“And if I win?” Zusha shook out her wings and met his eyes. Sometimes, in love as in war, a warm body was all that was needed. He grinned and crouched down on his branch.

“You won’t,” he promised. “So it doesn’t matter.”

Zusha launched herself from the tree, Miska an instant behind. She gained altitude fast, hearing the whistle of air through his feathers as he tailed her. Thousands of feet above the sandy clearing, she pivoted on a wingtip and fell past him, feinting with her talons. They passed so close that one of her folded primary feathers traced a line across his chest, welling beads of silver blood. Miska hissed and dove at her, and she barrel rolled over him to avoid his strike. He backwinged fiercely, flipping over and rolling to chase her again. Zusha glanced over her shoulder and he was right there, wingtip inches above hers. He winked at her again, and leaned away. She dipped a wing to follow him, the warm heaviness deepening in her belly. They spiraled around each other, climbing and slowing until the air couldn’t support them. Zusha wobbled first, falling into the spiral as her wide wings lost the wind. She rolled onto her back, the air flowing backwards along her wings, folding them up towards the male. He grinned in triumph and followed her down, extending his talons. They held on to one another as they fell, and he kissed her. His mouth was demanding, strong and firm against hers, and she pressed herself to him. The clearing came up below them and they broke apart, flying in close formation to a more private part of the forest.

Zusha crouched on the nest ledge, staring at the clutch of three silvery eggs. She felt an unwelcome pull on her magic, urging her to warm the eggs, but she resisted. Steel feathers beat the air as Felka landed beside her. Zusha had missed her more than she’d ever admit, but the other female’s greeting kiss was brief. Her black eyes were fixed on the eggs instead, an unusual tenderness in her gaze. The red-gold glow of magic around the clutch strengthened. Zusha felt a rush of distaste. She liked to see Felka on the battlefield, vicious and clever. This maternal creature was a stranger to her. 

“Which one is yours?” She asked Felka, jerking her chin at the eggs.

“None,” Felka said, sounding surprised at the question. “As you know well. You’re my mate.”

Zusha looked at her own egg, indistinguishable from the others. She felt nothing for it, although she remembered its creation with a surge of desire. She leaned her cheek against Felka’s, and after a moment Felka kissed her again, more warmly. Then the dark-haired Stormwing drew back, a hint of suspicion on her narrow face. 

“Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you,” Zusha said. 

Felka turned back to the clutch of eggs, her feathers ruffling and then settling again with soft clicks. “Someone said they saw you flying with Miska. I thought one of these might be yours.”

“I just got back from exile in Dunlath,” Zusha said. “Someone was lying to you.”

“Exile!” Felka laughed. “You’re so dramatic. It was a few weeks among the mortals.” 

“They have no respect,” Zusha groused, flexing her talons to send a shower of pebbles off the ledge. 

Felka looked thoughtful. “The queen hopes we can live alongside them, as we did before the realms were separated. Keep ourselves to ourselves, and they’ll do the same.”

“Live with them? They’re prey,” she said, unable to keep the disgust from her voice. “They should fear us, and what we will do to them.”

“If they’re at war,” Felka agreed. “But in times of peace, what purpose do we serve in frightening them?”

“They exist to feed us,” Zusha argued. 

“No,” Felka said, drawing herself up. The tenderness in her gaze shifted into a wary pity. “We exist for them, not the other way around.” 

Zusha was speechless. It seemed her brother’s philosophy and sentimentality was catching. She pulled away from Felka in disgust and dropped off the ledge, letting the rush of wind stoke her anger. She felt for the border of the Divine Realm, almost ready to leave the clan behind, but changed her mind. This soft, sentimental queen was leading the clan to their deaths. She couldn’t just leave and let that happen. The humans would kill them all, if they weren’t made to fear the Stormwings as they should. It was the mortal way. When they weren’t making war on one another, they destroyed everything around them. The only things the mortals understood were power and fear. Zusha would make sure they knew their place. 

She collected allies, mostly young Stormwings like Miska, raised in the Divine Realms. His friends joined her and they planned in whispers, climbing through the low winter clouds to plot in the clear, cold air above. There was little else to do as winter lingered on, so her faction grew inside the clan, bored and biding its time to revolution.

The early spring storm had passed, leaving puddles on the ground to reflect the trees and sky. The sun was setting, a violent smear of orange and red casting its light along the cliff face. Streaks and towers of cloud stood above the treeline, painted pink and blue against the darkening sky. Zusha bent down over a puddle and examined her own reflection. Her hair was wet and darkened with rain, plastered to her skull. Her blue eyes stared red-rimmed from her pale face. Silver blood spattered her cheeks and mingled with raindrops to trickle down her breasts and splash into the puddle. Her image rippled. She lay in the puddle, washing away her lover’s blood. Felka hadn’t made it easy, but it had to be done. 

Her lover’s body lay where she had fallen, at the base of the nesting cliff. The shells of the eggs were scattered in pieces around her, their silvery shards shining in the sand. The curled shapes of the dead half-formed hatchlings gave her pause, but they were a necessary sacrifice. All but one of them would have died anyway. She’d shortened their lives by mere weeks and spared them ignominious deaths by fratricide. 

Zusha lifted the stolen axe in one talon, flapping awkwardly back to Felka’s side. The other female was barely recognizable. Her face was bruised, eyes swollen shut under a gash from the axe which split her hairline. Another wound nearly separated her wing from her shoulder. The steel feathers were bent from the force of her landing, the wing twisted under her body. She lay in a silver pool of blood, talons clenched on nothing. Zusha dropped the axe beside her and pressed her cheek to Felka’s. The skin was already cooling, the blood drying and sticky. Zusha began keening, surprised by the honest grief that welled up with the primitive sound. Her cries of sorrow drew the flock from their roosts, and she told them the story. 

It was simple and clear. Felka had been caught off guard. She had been crouched on the ledge, the red-gold glow of her magic protecting the eggs and warming them. Focused on her parental duties, and deafened by the boom of thunder and the rain pattering off her feathers, she didn’t hear her attacker. The first blow to her head had dizzied her, blinded her with pain and the river of blood that poured over her eyes. The following strikes pushed her over the ledge. That much was true. The rest was credible and useful fiction. Zusha said that humans from the village had crept out into the forest during the thunderstorm, knowing that lightning kept the flock out of the sky. Finding the nest unguarded except for one Stormwing, they attacked. Alone and outnumbered, Felka was murdered. Once she fell, they smashed the eggs and kicked them over the cliff as well. Zusha had arrived too late. Felka was dying on the ground, choking out a plea for vengeance with her last breaths. Zusha saw the villagers fleeing, but was too stricken by grief to hunt them down alone. That was when the flock found her, mourning her lover and the dead hatchlings. 

Even Barzha believed her. The queen landed beside Zusha, and for once her dark eyes held no judgment, only sorrow. Hebakh mantled his wings over Felka’s body, rocking foot to foot with anger. His pale eyes promised violent revenge. Zusha felt a spike of triumph through her unexpected grief. She would teach the humans to fear her kind once again.


	10. Stowaways

Rikash crossed the long causeway out of Dunlath, letting the horse set its own pace. There was no need to hurry. The morning was cold but clear; no one else seemed to be leaving town just yet. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the village, and he imagined all the families comfortable and well cared-for under Maura’s guidance. The girl had done well so far, for herself and for her people. It wasn’t a job he envied, having responsibility for so many mortal lives. He still wasn’t sure how to manage just one.

The road wound up through the mountains, and he got off the horse to rest it on the long switchbacks. As he slid from the saddle, he heard a strange sound. The sound came again a moment later, more certain. His saddlebag rustled. The little mews grew more desperate, and he opened the bag. A tiny cream-colored kitten lay atop his rolled-up set of extra clothes. It peered reproachfully at him from unfocused blue eyes, and cried again. He looked around the forest, as if a mother cat or other explanation might present itself. The kitten put its grey front paws up on the rim of the saddlebag, which promptly collapsed. He caught the tiny thing as it fell, a clumsy, wriggling pile of soft fur that fit into one hand. It mewed again, and he set it on the saddle. 

“Stay,” he told it, pointlessly. Already it was standing again, teetering on its wobbly infant legs, tiny claws scratching at the saddle leather. He kept one hand near it in case it fell again, and looked in the saddlebag. There were no more tiny stowaways, only a folded piece of paper. 

_ Dear Rikash, _

_ You’ll find an important part of being human is caring for something other than yourself. This is a good place to start. She doesn’t need much but affection and food, although that’s true of most creatures!  _

_ Your friend, _

_ Maura of Dunlath _

_ P.S. I hope she sleeps long enough for you to be well on your way. The keep is already full of her cousins and siblings.  _

Rikash read the note as the kitten butted his hand imperiously. He found himself stroking her soft little head and ears, as her frantic mewing faded into an absurdly loud purr. When he took his hand away the kitten nearly toppled off the horse again, stretching out for more petting. Rikash scooped up the kitten and climbed back into the saddle.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” He asked the kitten. 

She peered up at him, eyes crossed with the effort to focus. He looked back the way he’d come, but as Maura had hoped, he was several hours away from the keep now. It didn’t seem worth turning back. A hawk cried overhead, and he tapped the horse with his heels. 

“I can’t leave you here. You’re barely a mouthful for a hawk or a wolf.” The kitten dug tiny needle claws into his breeches to hang on as the horse ambled forward, and mewed once as if in answer. After a moment, she tried to climb out along the horse’s neck, clawing for grip until the patient gelding tossed his head with a snort. Rikash gently pried the kitten off the horse, depositing her back into the saddlebag. Once the flap closed, the tiny thing cried and cried without stopping for an hour. Eventually, exasperated, he picked up the kitten again. She quieted instantly, in the curve of his arm, and fell asleep. Her little body was so small as to be almost weightless, just a warm puff of fur and attitude. 

“We’re going to Corus,” he told the kitten, during one of her brief wakeful periods, as if she understood or cared. “I’ve friends there, I hope, and work to do.” He’d left things a bit awkward with Daine and Numair, and the work was unwanted and likely impossible, but the kitten didn’t mind when he admitted these things. She stared at him while he talked, unblinking. It was nice to have a listener who judged him only on his willingness to pet her while talking. She offered no opinions and expressed no shock, no matter what he told her. 

He made camp early, well before nightfall, blaming the kitten. She seemed tired, never mind that she had slept in ten minute intervals all day long. He hobbled the horse, tossed the saddle on the ground, and cast his protective circle. When he returned, the kitten was nowhere to be found. The spell he’d cast would keep things in as well as out, and she couldn’t have gotten far on those shaky little legs. Surely she would reappear soon. He checked the saddlebags, pulling out a rag to wipe down the horse. No kitten. He groomed the horse and fed him. The kitten was so small; maybe she had escaped before he finished the circle. He shook his head and knelt to make a fire. He hadn’t even wanted the creature. It was just as well she had wandered off now and saved him the trouble of finding her a more suitable home. 

There was a cloth ball of soup mix in the saddlebag and some dried meat. He retrieved them, taking longer than necessary but telling himself he wasn’t looking for the kitten. The soup warmed over the fire and still she hadn’t reappeared. He added the dry meat and stirred the pot, then leaned back against the saddle. The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the trees. It was cold still, up in the mountains, and he was glad for the handed-down coat Maura had given him. Patches of snow lingered in the shaded parts of the road and along the ridges. The soup pot steamed. He reached for it, bumping the saddle, and heard an already-familiar mew. The kitten staggered out from her warm little cave under the saddle. 

“I see how it is,” Rikash said, annoyed by the relief in his own voice. He took some of the meat from the pot and broke it into small pieces. “You come out for food, once all the work is done.” 

The kitten purred as she devoured the meat shreds and begged for more. She put her paws on the cooled pot and sniffed the broth, then lapped at it. When Rikash laid out his blanket near the fire, the little creature curled up on his chest. Her grey ears and nose twitched at small noises and scents from the forest even as she fell asleep. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Rikash warned the kitten as he pulled the blanket over them both. “When we get to Corus, you’re staying with Daine.” 

The roads grew more crowded near the city, merchants and knights and assorted travelers all making their way now that the snow had melted. Thick mud bogged down carts, hooves, and boots, so it was slow going. The kitten had learned to ride behind the saddle, and even slept on the gelding’s wide hindquarters while they inched toward the city. After the quiet of Dunlath and the mountain road, Corus was overwhelming. The kitten retreated to hide under the hem of Rikash’s coat, peeking out with wide blue eyes. 

Night was falling by the time they reached the castle. The guards expected him and let him pass without fuss, which was a welcome change from his last arrival in the city. He made it all the way to his old room without talking to anyone except Stefan the hostler, who seemed glad to have the dun gelding back in one piece. The windows were open, letting in the cool evening air. Rikash dropped his bag on the floor, setting the kitten down more carefully. She wobbled off to explore, her little striped tail stiff in the air. He’d have to ask Daine to talk to the kitten about going outside for her privy needs. Someone tapped on the door, which was open behind him, and the kitten fled to hide behind his bag.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” the maid said. 

Rikash turned to look at her, unexpectedly nervous. Remembering her last words to him, he asked, “Did you want to?” 

She smiled, pressing one hand to the small of her back. Her belly curved under her other hand, stretching the fabric of her dress. The kitten snuck over to sit in front of the maid and gave one of her plaintive mews. The maid knelt down a little awkwardly and scooped her up.

“Is she yours?” The maid asked.

Rikash shrugged. “She came with me from Dunlath.” 

The maid cuddled the kitten, cooing over her soft grey nose and big blue eyes. “What’s her name, then?”

“She hasn’t told me,” Rikash answered. “You have that in common.”

The maid laughed. Tendrils of her dark curls had escaped her cap and framed her cheeks. The kitten batted at them, then fought to get down.Set free, she sat on the floor between them and licked her paws intently. The maid stood, supporting her back again with her hands on her hips. 

“You must be very happy, expecting a little one,” Rikash said, nodding to her belly. The maid looked curiously at him.

“You’re the first one to say so,” she said. “Thank you. I am happy.” 

Footsteps came down the hall, and Daine appeared in the doorway. The kitten bounded up to the wild mage, and the maid took the moment to vanish again. Daine settled the ecstatic kitten in her arm, then hugged Rikash. 

“Welcome back! I see you found a friend along the way.” Daine lifted the kitten, inspecting her teeth, fur, and paws. “She seems to like you.”

“She’s a mercenary little thing. She’d like anyone who fed her,” Rikash said, but took the kitten when Daine handed her back.

“It’s not just food,” Daine assured him, smiling. “She likes your voice. Says you talked to her the whole way here. I hope you saved some stories for Numair. He’s been fretting all winter over his book.”

Rikash glared at the kitten, but stroked her under her chin. “Does this little traitor have a name?”

Daine laughed. “Usually two-leggers don’t ask. They just pick one.”

“Seems rude,” Rikash said. Daine shrugged.

“Parents do the same thing,” she offered. “She doesn’t mind, and she’ll only answer to it when she wants to anyway. I’ll let you two settle in. Come for a ride with me in the morning?”

Rikash agreed, deciding to put off his task for a few more hours. He wasn’t anxious to be closeted with Numair for days on end. 


	11. Another Time

Daine and Rikash walked to Numair’s workroom together the next morning, warm from exercising the ponies. The dun gelding had been less than enthused to see Rikash again, but Cloud hadn’t bitten him, so he considered that a win. Daine gave the mage a quick hug, and he smiled down at her. Rikash leaned against the doorway, uncertain he was welcome, but Numair beckoned him in. The familiar scent of paper and herbs enveloped him. 

“Thank you for these,” Numair said, holding up a stack of letters. “I didn’t expect you’d want to continue our project, after how we left things.”

“How you left things,” Daine corrected him, in a tone that spoke of many past arguments. 

“Either way,” the mage continued, “it was a kind thing to do.”

“Most unlike me, I know,” Rikash said dryly. Numair’s mouth twitched towards a smile. He laid the letters down on the table, smoothing them. Rikash could see notes in the margins, in a scratchy, elegant hand different from his own awkward writing. Maura had taught him to write, over the long winter in Dunlath, but the skill was slow to develop. His scarred right hand resisted holding anything as fine as a quill, but his left smeared the ink unless he was very careful. 

“I have some questions,” Numair began. Daine looked up at him, a warning in her eyes. “If this is a good time.”

“I have some conditions,” Rikash replied, matching the mage’s tone. Numair quirked an eyebrow at him, but waited. “I’ll answer your questions, if you teach me in return.”

“Teach you to use your Gift.” The mage sounded resigned. 

“Yes.” Rikash left out the fact that he’d been ordered to cooperate. He took the feather blade off his belt, holding it flat on his palms. In his magical sight, the core of immortal magic in the feather shaft flared when the metal touched his skin, but it no longer overwhelmed him. “You were right. There’s powerful magic in this, and I need to learn to use it.” 

Numair pressed two long fingers above the bridge of his nose, pushing back a headache. “Fine,” he agreed. Daine rose on tip toe and kissed his cheek. 

“Tell me more about this,” Numair said, passing Rikash a particular letter. 

Rikash skimmed the letter, one of his earliest by the uncertain legibility, although he was fairly certain he knew what it contained. 

“This is where you want to begin? Hardly a sign of good faith.”

“I’m interested in your perspective. I know what the human mages wrote about it.” Numair folded his arms across his chest, leaning the chair back against his workbench to listen. 

The mortal world had grown quiet, just before it happened. It had been years without a battle nearby, and the fasting hit the younger Stormwings the hardest. Born in the mortal world during years of war and turmoil, they weren’t used to waiting and grew restless. Some of the clan had taken to the Divine Realms already, but challenges flew thick and fierce among those who stayed. Rikash had little interest at the time, and broke away from the clan. His sister challenged him at any opportunity or imagined slight, and he tired of it. He wouldn’t kill her, and she never won, so he could never relax. 

He flew south, ending up alone over the coast of the inland sea. He rode the wind up like a kite until he could see the shore of Carthak in the distance. The air was thin and cold in his lungs. He dived, gaining airspeed, then yanked his wings in close to his body, rolling for the sheer joy of it. The world spun and steadied, air streaming through his spread primaries. A flash in the corner of his eye warned him and he drew both wings up, rolling onto his back, talons extended. The other Stormwing streaked past, long dark hair trailing in braids behind him. Rikash somersaulted and followed him, matching his flight path from a wing-length behind. The male looked over his shoulder and grinned. They flew together through a series of loops and rolls until Rikash was panting and his wings ached. They’d lost altitude in the chase and skimmed the beach, frightening up a flock of gulls. Rikash heard the other male laugh as he flared his wings and dropped neatly into the sand. 

“I haven’t flown like that in years,” the Stormwing said, broad face stretched in a smile. “Not too bad.”

Rikash dropped his wings defensively even as he smiled back. For all the male looked friendly, you couldn’t be too careful; but he had landed first, putting himself in the more vulnerable position. The stranger hopped toward the water and Rikash drew back, hissing in a breath. The shining surface meant certain death, if a Stormwing fell in. A little wave curled over the stranger’s talons, and he dug them into the sand. 

“You’re young, aren’t you?” The male asked, looking out to sea. He held his wings and tail carefully clear of the water, but seemed at ease. 

Rikash shrugged. Youth for an immortal was nothing to be proud of. “My clan is in the north. Stone Tree.”

“Nice to meet another wanderer. I’m Kalon.”

“Rikash.” He paused for a moment, watching the gulls settle around them. “I didn’t know there was a clan down here. I was thinking of crossing the sea to Carthak.”

“No clan, just me.” Kalon didn’t seem bothered by it, but Rikash couldn’t imagine living all alone for long. The adventure was novel, but his life was with the flock. The waves sighed along the sand and the wind shifted as the sun sank in the sky. Rikash shook out his wings, letting the wind play through the feathers and lift him nearly off his feet. Kalon watched him, eyes shadowed and unreadable in the dusk. 

“Stay with me tonight.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Rikash nodded. The other Stormwing leaned into the wind and beat his wings hard, kicking up a spray of salt water and damp sand. Rikash drew on his magic to shield his feathers, dreading the thought of preening out sand all night. Kalon didn’t seem to care. He flew toward a ridge of hills in the distance, Rikash following him. 

They landed on a ledge overhung by scraggly trees. It was sheltered from the sea breeze and faced the setting sun. They spoke a little, as darkness fell, of places they’d both seen, like the eyrie, in the Divine Realms. The first Stormwings had been created there, and now all young Stormwings born in the mortal world made a pilgrimage soon after they fledged. Kalon told him about the inland sea, and the battles he’d seen among the humans there. Rikash felt the edges of some deep hurt in the other male’s voice, and when he fell silent, Rikash didn’t pry. They fell asleep as darkness covered the coastline, and woke again with the dawn. 

The stunted trees along the ridge made for challenging flying. Kalon led the way, weaving in and out among the branches, but Rikash soon passed him. Raised in old-growth forest, he squeezed through gaps in the branches the larger male couldn’t manage. Passing between the arch of a trunk and the cliff edge, he glided so low he could feel the pressure of the ground pushing back up on his wingtips. Kalon rolled overhead and dived past him, down the cliff. Rikash folded his wings and followed, falling so fast he could scarcely catch a breath. The wind screamed in his ears. The white caps of the waves grew and elongated, and still Kalon didn’t pull up. Rikash’s wings twitched instinctively to break the dive, but he forced himself to continue. The salt mist from the sea blew in his face, then droplets of water from the cresting waves. Finally, Kalon leveled off, skimming the rising water with his wingtip. A wall of water arched up over them, blocking out the sky. Rikash’s heart was in his throat, adrenaline surging. The water rose, roaring, pushing the two Stormwings ahead of it on a rolling current of air. Rikash fought to stay level, wings damp and shining with sea-spray. And then they were through, and the wave broke behind them as they shot up into the sky. Kalon whooped, flinging water from his wings in a tight spiral. The sun caught the beads of water that fell in a shimmer around Rikash, and he found himself grinning uncontrollably. This feeling wasn’t the opulent satisfaction of a battlefield, but something cleaner and sharper, closer to joy. He could tell Kalon felt it too. The older male grinned back, soaring beside him along the coastline. When the sun was high they rested, perched on a dead snag with their wings spread to dry. 

“I’m surprised your clan let you go,” Kalon said, wringing seawater from his long black braids with a foot. “You’re a talented flyer. I’d wager you win lots of challenges.”

“I do,” Rikash said shortly, the feathers on his back ruffled. 

Kalon nodded, watching Rikash with a searching expression. They played above the ocean again just before dark, dodging the waves while coming as close as possible to the water. As the sun set, they retreated again to the ledge among the trees.

“Why are you here alone?” Rikash finally asked in return; but the sun had set and the other Stormwing didn’t answer. A halo around the half moon threatened rain. 

The next day, they chased the seabirds before the storm came. They started with big lazy gulls, scaring them off the beach in low reluctant flocks. That was no challenge, so they went after terns instead. The small, narrow-winged birds could corner on a wingtip, jerking themselves in the opposite direction with fierce cries. They defended their stretch of beach, rising in angry pairs to divebomb the Stormwings, sharp-beaked and fearless.

When the rain started, Rikash turned back towards their ledge with Kalon right behind him. They ducked under the overhang, shaking water from their feathers. Thunder crashed outside, and Rikash sidled along the ledge to be further from the rain. But then he could feel Kalon beside him, the steam rising off his wide, muscled chest as the rain and sweat evaporated. The other Stormwing’s amber eyes were intense. Rikash met his gaze, unfamiliar tension making his breath come fast. Kalon lowered his head, stepping slightly closer. His braids clicked, falling over his shoulders and across the steel feathers of his back, and Rikash welcomed the excuse to look away. He reached out carefully for one of the narrow black braids, and saw bones woven into it. Kalon didn’t take his eyes from Rikash’s face.

“Souvenirs,” he explained, voice low. “Every battle, every duel.” 

His braids were studded with hundreds of small bones, the silver of Stormwing and the ivory of human alike. Rikash let go, and Kalon reached out in turn. He moved slowly, until Rikash felt the cool, sharp points of his talons sliding through his tangled blond hair. Rikash trembled, the metallic clicking of his feathers barely audible over the rain. No one had ever touched him without violence. He tipped his head closer and Kalon combed through his hair, separating out a small section. He braided it back, weaving in sections to keep it close to the scalp. When he finished, the single braid curved around Rikash’s ear and fell on his shoulder. Kalon tugged it gently, and Rikash looked up at him. His heart raced as it had when they were dodging waves, although nothing was happening; then Kalon bent closer and kissed him. Rikash parted his lips in surprise and Kalon tightened his grip, pulling him closer. The other Stormwing’s steel talons pressed into the skin of his neck, just shy of painful. Rikash gasped and pulled away, breathing hard. Kalon smiled and let him go. For a few long moments the only sound was the constant pattering of the rain and the hush of the surf on the beach. Rikash licked his lip and Kalon watched him, eyes dark and hungry. 

Thunder cracked the sky with a blinding flash of light. Even after the peal of thunder ended, everything stayed white, as though he were flying through thick fog. Rikash couldn’t feel the ledge under himself anymore, or the heat of Kalon’s body beside him. A violent wind pulled at him, swirling cold and then hot like a fever against his skin. He fought it, jerking his wings open, but continued to tumble into nothing. When the sky cleared and he righted himself, he immediately had to swerve to avoid a hurrock, its eyes wide with panic and fangs bared. He beat his wings hard for altitude. The sky was full of immortals. Stormwings, winged apes, and winged horses flew about in a mad gathering he never would have imagined. He looked for Kalon, but couldn’t find him amid the swirl of confused immortals. The ground was no better: centaurs and unicorns ran side by side with ogres, trampling smaller creatures unfortunate enough to be underfoot. He could feel their deaths, rising through the dense air of a place that should have been deathless. This was no battleground, just trapped creatures reacting in fear. 

The queen of the Stone Tree clan rose above the tumult near him, calling out to the flock. Her black glass crown glittered in the strong sunlight of the Divine Realms. Rikash felt for the barrier, to return to the mortal world, and found it impenetrable. All his life, he had crossed it as easy as thought, one side to the other in a single wing beat. The skies were all the same, as far as Stormwings were concerned. Queen Barzha called out again and he flew to her side, watching as his clan separated themselves from the others. The other Stormwing leaders were doing the same, and soon they rose in separate spirals, clan by clan, bound for the eyrie. Someone would answer for this, Rikash was certain. Stormwings could not be imprisoned for long. 

“Well that was colorful,” Daine remarked, cheeks flushed.

“I promised to tell you about the braids,” Rikash said. 

”You took the long way around what I wanted to know,” Numair remarked, sounding annoyed. 

“I thought you wanted to know everything. Besides, you remind me of him, a bit,” he said with a smirk, enjoying the mage’s sudden discomfort. Rikash looked him over, appraisingly. “Only he wasn’t so stork-like.”

The mage gestured at the recording spell and it vanished into a roll of parchment. 

“I heard a rumor you were canoodling with a maid here,” Daine said, with frankness that no longer surprised him inside their friendship. “But I suppose that’s not true.”

“She comforted me,” Rikash said. That night seemed so long ago, when the maid had taken him to bed. “Just before I left for Dunlath.”

Daine looked shocked. “What about Kalon?”

Numair cleared his throat. “That was four hundred years ago, magelet. People - and Stormwings - change.”

Rikash raised an eyebrow. That was an interesting admission. Perhaps the mage was starting to see him and his flock as people, instead of curiosities to study, or enemies to defeat. Or perhaps he had a past himself that he’d prefer Daine not examine too intensely. Daine was still staring at Rikash, expectant.

“Stormwings don’t always take lovers of one gender, like most humans seem to do.” Rikash shrugged. “Unless it’s the season for nesting, it doesn’t matter. Kalon wouldn’t be jealous, if that’s what you mean.” He might’ve been, if he were still alive; but that was a story for another day. 

“You should know that’s not how two-leggers do romance,” Daine said. Numair cleared his throat, changing the subject. 

“So when the barrier went up between the realms, it forced all the immortals to return at once.” 

Rikash nodded. “It was chaos. Eons of tradition, boundaries, and treaties destroyed in an instant. I don’t know how many immortals died that day.” 

“I can see why Ozorne got so many followers, then,” Daine said. “Even the wolves fought, once they were backed into a corner.”

”In the beginning, I was angry too, and wanted revenge on the human mages.” Rikash glanced at Numair, not intending any insult this time. “But there were many things Ozorne didn’t understand. He brought a flawed mortal perspective into an immortal body, and many Stormwings were swayed. Those of us who were not were quickly outnumbered.”

“You should have killed him when you had the chance,” Numair said. 

“You grew up with him,” Daine retorted. “Evil like that doesn’t just spring up out of the ground.”

“It’s done,” Rikash said, raising his hands to stop their argument before they got wound up. “And since it wasn’t Numair or me, that leaves you, Daine.”

Daine gripped the silver claw she wore around her neck, lips pressed tightly together. Numair put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.


	12. Conversations

Rikash sat in the window of his room, back braced against the frame. The spring air had some bite to it, swirling along the stone wall of the castle, and he breathed it in gratefully. It cleared his lungs of the dust from Numair’s room, and his mind of old memories. He saw the maid come in out of the corner of his eye, and turned to smile at her.

“What are you doing up there?” The maid yelped, grabbing his arm.

Rikash swung his legs back to the floor, surprised at her distress.

“Sitting,” he said, although that was obvious. “It’s a nice day.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, not letting go of his arm.

“I was afraid you might...fall,” she said. “Sometimes my husband got strange ideas in his head.”

Rikash stood, and the maid lowered her hand. “Your husband?”

“He’s gone,” she said, tonelessly. “One of the early battles against the Copper Islanders.”

“I’m sorry,” Rikash said. “I didn’t know. I was there too.”

The maid’s face darkened. “You’re a soldier?”

“Not anymore. It’s not the life I wanted.” Rikash looked out at the sunshine, but saw instead fields of dead men with the shadows of huge wings falling over them.

“It’s a bad life, and a short one,” the maid agreed. “We grew up together, but he was never the same after he took to soldiering. Sometimes he took it out on me, and sometimes on himself. When I saw you on the ledge...” she trailed off and shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” Rikash said again, and reached for her hand. She joined him by the window. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

They stood for a minute, Rikash scanning the sky. Barzha’s messenger hadn’t arrived yet, and he felt restless. The court was having a formal dinner the next evening, which he was already dreading. In Dunlath, he’d been able to keep to himself. Corus was different, a hive of rumors and activity. The more people noticed him, the more likely they were to ask questions he couldn’t answer. Too many people knew who he had been already. 

The maid turned his hand over and stroked her fingers along the scar on his palm. His curled fingers twitched.

“Does it hurt?” She asked. “What happened?”

“It’s from a Stormwing feather,” he said, drawing his sword and showing her the blade. She traced her fingertips along the feather pattern, just above the steel.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and he smiled at her. He hadn’t expected that, but the blade was beautiful, with all its delicate details. “Did you kill the Stormwing?”

“I did,” Rikash said after a moment. “At Port Legann.”

“Good,” she said softly. He put the sword away, to hide the hurt that crossed his face.

“I never saw his body,” the maid said, wrapping one hand around her rounded belly. “They buried him there, but I kept imagining his final moments. I hope they were quick, that he died before those monsters got to him.”

Rikash looked at the floor, unsure what she wanted him to say. A thousand nameless dead soldiers blamed him for her pain. 

“I’m sorry,” the maid said, and backed away. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with all that.”

“I’m glad you did,” Rikash said. 

“Maybe someday you’ll tell me your story in return.” The maid tipped her head, birdlike, to look him over. “I have work to be getting on with.”

The kitten emerged from under the bed when the maid left. She stretched and then wobbled over to put her paws on his leg, looking up sleepily. Rikash picked her up and settled back on the window. A distant flash caught his eye: afternoon sun on steel feathers. He sighed and petted the kitten’s soft head, watching the bright wings grow larger. They resolved into a trio of Stormwings, the first wearing a black glass crown. He hadn’t expected her to come alone, but was relieved the whole flock hadn’t accompanied her this time. With the kingdom uneasy in its newfound peace, the last thing they needed was a show of immortal force. 

Rory was on duty on the wall when Rikash climbed up to meet the Stormwings. 

“Friends of yours?” The guard asked uneasily, pointing with his chin at the oncoming immortals. 

“Something like that,” Rikash answered. “Are you the only one up here?”

Rory set his hand on his sword hilt. “Do I need to call for backup?”

”No,” Rikash assured him. “I don’t expect trouble. But I don’t want everyone knowing they’re here to meet me.”

”Sure, I’ll say I frightened ‘em off,” Rory said with a grin. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Barzha and Hebakh landed, followed closely by a young, dark-haired male Rikash only vaguely recognized. The wind was stronger, here on the wall, carrying their odor away. Rory stood nearby, watching them suspiciously. Barzha didn’t deign to notice. 

“Rikash, this is Miska,” Barzha said, indicating the new Stormwing, who looked him over with cold arrogance. 

“Miska will bring news and orders for you from the clan,” Hebakh added. “Ensure these guards know to expect him.”

Rikash nodded in greeting, but Miska looked away. 

“The mortals assure me they are looking for whichever of them destroyed our nest,” Barzha said. “I doubt it will come to anything, but the lady of Dunlath seems sincere.”

“She is,” Rikash assured the queen. “She bears no ill-will towards our clan.”

Miska made a disbelieving sound through his nose, and Hebakh shifted foot to foot.

“The mortals must understand: we don’t want to go to war again. That is not our role. But, if they continue to provoke us, we will have no choice.” Barzha’s husky voice was commanding.

“Your little friend in Dunlath will be the first to go,” Miska promised, and clicked his pointed silver teeth together. Barzha shot him a quelling look. He resettled his wings carelessly in what was almost, but not quite, a shrug.

“Work with the mages, and with Lady Maura. Perhaps the mortals will learn some respect. Miska will only come when we have need of you.” Barzha looked at Rory, who watched her with slightly more curiosity than fear. “We will keep our distance.”

“I don’t envy you this task,” Hebakh said dryly. “Although perhaps working with the mortals becomes less odious when you’re one yourself.”

“Your sister sends her regards,” Miska said, drawing his talons along the stone. “She hopes to see you soon.”

“Enough!” Barzha swept her wings wide, sending the two males into the air. They circled while the queen dropped a bag of coins and a letter bearing the Dunlath seal onto the wall.

“Fair winds, Rikash,” Barzha said. He ran his fingers over the scar on his palm, fighting back the remembered pain of abandonment. The queen paused, half-crouched to leave. “I don’t know what the mortals say.”

“Good luck,” he told her.Barzha’s dark eyes held his.

“You are missed,” she told him softly. “Good luck.”

The next morning, Rikash went to the guardhouse to meet Rory. He meant to apologize for leaving so suddenly, but his friend would have none of it.

“I know how it is, grieving for your family,” the guard said, eyes shadowed. “A man might need some time to himself, to sort things out in his head.”

Rikash nodded, and Rory clasped his arm.  


“All the same, I’m glad you’re back. Missed watching you flounder around the practice yard.”

They took practice swords off the rack by the door and headed out to the sparring field. The guard’s usually cheerful face was clouded, a crease between his thick brows. The moment Rikash faced him, Rory attacked with a flurry of blows. Bewildered, Rikash retreated, barely able to block the strikes. The guard’s face flushed red with anger and exertion as he advanced. Afteronly a few minutes though, Rory bent over, digging the blunted point of the practice sword into the dirt. He leaned on it, panting, and Rikash lowered his blade. His arms ached from the unaccustomed effort; he’d let himself get lazy over the long winter in Dunlath.

“That was some greeting,” Rikash said, watching his friend with concern.

“Sorry about that,” Rory huffed. He clenched his fists on the pommel of the sword and rested his forehead on them. Rikash crouched down too and waited. Several other sparring pairs joined them on the field, the clash of their weapons drowning out the morning birdsong. Rory stood and offered Rikash a hand up.

“I saw my sister last night,” Rory said heavily, as they returned to their sparring.

“You have a sister?”

Rory looked at him strangely. “Aoife. She works in the castle as a maid. Says she knows you.”

Rikash fumbled the next block, earning a bruise on his ribs. Rory pressed the advantage, and neither of them spoke for some time. When the bells rang the hour, they stopped, sweating and pleasantly winded. The other soldiers turned back to the castle, calling out greetings and insults to each other. Rory still looked troubled.

“Aoife’s expecting a child,” the guard said.

“Congratulations?” Rikash had never heard such joyful words spoken with such misery, and had no idea how to respond. Rory glared at him.

“She must’ve been taken advantage of, but she won’t tell me the man’s name.”

“Why would you think that?”

Rory furrowed his brow as though Rikash were being intentionally dense. “She’s a widow. How else would she have gotten in the family way?”

No answer other than the obvious and apparently incorrect one presented itself, so Rikash was glad when they reached the guard’s quarters and separated. He had an uncomfortable suspicion about Aoife, and the identity of her baby’s father. But the castle was a big place, with people coming and going all the time. There were many maids. No reason at all for him to think what he was thinking.

“Your child - it’s not mine, is it?” The words rushed out before he could stop them. They’d been running through his mind all day, since the conversation with Rory.The maid turned, one hand supporting the curve of her spine. Her chemise peeked out under the hem of her linen dress, which was stretched over her belly. He’d been looking for her unsuccessfully all over the castle, then returned to his room to find her there. 

“We were only together the once,” he continued, when she said nothing. Her eyes were pitying, and she smiled at him.

“It only takes the once,” she said. His heart skipped. “My husband has been dead for more than a year. But don’t worry. I don’t need anything from you. We’ll do fine on our own.”

The maid turned to leave. Rikash was having trouble getting his thoughts in order, but was certain he couldn’t just let her disappear in her usual way as if nothing had changed.

“Aoife, wait,” he said, catching her arm.

She raised an eyebrow at him and he let go. “Figured out my name over the winter, did you?”

“Your brother told me this morning,” Rikash admitted.

“He’s been in a state,” Aoife laughed. “You’d think he was the one expecting, with all the fuss he’s made.”

“He cares about you, and your little one.” Her dismissal of Rory, and of himself, was beginning to sting. “You don’t have to be on your own.”

The maid faced him, both hands on her hips now. “You know nothing about me.  I don’t need your pity.”

Rikash could hardly disagree. He’d thought the same of her, six months before. “You don’t know me either, if you think I could let you raise our child alone.”

“You’re right. I don’t know you.” Aoife’s tone softened, though, and she looked him over curiously. “Most noblemen I know would’ve run for the hills if they’d found out about a maid’s bastard. Or just ignored it.”

A silence stretched between them until Aoife winced and put a hand to her belly. Rikash impulsively moved towards her, but she waved him off.

“Just a kick. Strong little thing.” She looked up at him. “Want to feel it?”

Aoife pressed his hand to her belly. Under the worn drape of the linen dress, her skin was taut and warm. He could barely breathe, waiting to feel the child move. For several long moments they stood close together, waiting. Then there was a flutter, under his fingertips. He gasped in surprise, and the flutter vanished beneath the muscles of her stomach as Aoife laughed.

“It’s like you’ve never seen a pregnant woman before,” she said.

“Not like this,” Rikash answered, reluctantly taking his hand off the curve of her belly.

“It’s different when it’s yours,” Aoife agreed.

“Is it? Mine, I mean.” After five hundred years childless, perhaps Rikash could be forgiven for believing it was impossible.

“Ours,” Aoife said. “I suppose I’ll have to tell Rory.”

The formal dinner, as it turned out, was meant to introduce him to the court. Rikash couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. Numair and Daine had come up to his room, to break the news. 

“No,” Rikash said firmly. “I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing here.”

“Things will be easier for you, with the support of the king and queen,” Numair argued. “They want peace more than the Stormwings do.”

“Telling everyone who I am won’t help,” Rikash said, “because I’m not going to do anything. My queen needs to to look like she’s accomplishing something, while the clan calms down. They’ll forget, in time.”

“Your queen?” Numair asked pointedly.

“Old habits.” Rikash felt himself reach for the pendant in his hair and forced his hand back down. “Barzha has nothing but time. She’s been queen over five hundred years. I have no idea how old she is. If you think she cares about one mortal village, or even this kingdom, you’re fooling yourself. If she wanted vengeance, she’d have had it long since.”

Numair ran his finger along the ridge of his nose, thinking. 

“He’s right,” Daine spoke up. “They could’ve destroyed the town, or even the castle, and fled to the Divine Realms if we pursued them.”

“We’ve done worse, and with less provocation.” Rikash shrugged. “Mortals have many reasons to hate us. If they hadn’t locked us away for so long, they’d remember many more.”

Numair looked uneasy. “What’s stopping them?”

“The queen said wait, and so they’re waiting. Until someone challenges her and wins, there will be no more wars against mortals.” 

“Until?” Daine’s warm brown eyes were troubled. 

“Not even Barzha will rule forever. Eventually she’ll miss something, and she will fall.” Rikash pressed his fingers into the scar in his palm. “I never challenged her, because I might’ve won, and I never wanted the crown. I have spent every minute since I was pulled back out of the Divine Realms owing service to one monarch or another. It’s past time I was able to live my own life.”

Daine smiled sadly at him. “You said something similar to me before, on the way to the Dragonlands. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

Rikash waved away her apology. “If the court knows what I was and who I’m working for, they will hate me. I deserve that, but Aoife doesn’t. Give us a chance.”

For once, even Numair looked sympathetic. “Who’s Aoife?”

“Oh.” Rikash’s cheeks warmed and he looked away. “She’s my mate, I suppose.”

“Your mate?” Numair’s brow arched. “That’s quick work. You’ve been back in Corus for two days.”

“She’s the maid, isn’t she? There was talk last winter, and now she’s...” Daine trailed off, watching Rikash thoughtfully. He stood, hoping they would let the subject drop. 

“I’ll talk to the king,” Numair said. “No one else needs to know, unless you decide to tell them.”

The mage left briskly, but Daine stayed behind. Rikash could tell by the set of her chin that he was in for a lecture. 

“How well do you know Aoife?” Daine asked. 

“Enough,” Rikash said. Daine narrowed her eyes. 

“Do you know she’s pregnant?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

“She says it’s your child?” 

“Yes. What are you trying to say, Daine?”

“She has a reputation for being no better than she ought to be,” Daine said in a rush. The words meant nothing to Rikash, but he could tell by Daine’s blush that they should.

“I have no reason to doubt her. If you know something certain, tell me. If not,” he gestured to the open door. “I’d rather they gossiped about Aoife and me than anything else I do.”

Daine frowned. “Did you plan this?”

“No,” he said, “but if everyone is talking about this life, they won’t have time for my old one.”

“You’re using her,” Daine said, disapproving.

“We’re using each other,” Rikash corrected. “Neither of us has any illusions about that.”

The kitten scrambled over to them, mewing plaintively, so he picked her up. Already she was stronger, less wobbly. He scratched behind her ears while Daine fidgeted, trying to come up with an argument.  


“I’ll see you at dinner then,” she said finally, giving up. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  
  


Rory stumbled through the doors halfway through the formal dinner. His unfocused eyes searched the hall for Rikash. Unfortunately, Rikash wasn’t in his usual place at the lower tables, but near the king and queen. He watched the guard swaying on his feet, pushing away the servant who tried to guide him back outside. The feelings of guilt and dread that had plagued him all day deepened. He should’ve convinced Aoife to wait, so they could tell Rory together. As it was, the man could not have picked a worse moment to seek him out. Just as Rikash was trying to think of a way to extricate himself, Rory spotted him.

The guard pointed at him and called out something unintelligible, crossing the room in a rapid stumble. Rikash stood and bowed with a hurried apology, missing the Stormwing ability to make an exit without excuses.

“My friend is not well, please excuse me for a moment.”

“Friend!” Rory slurred, slamming his hands on Rikash’s shoulders. “We’re not friends. After what you did to my sister.”

Rikash put an arm behind the guard’s back, trying to guide him out before he could make any more of a scene. The guard fought him, turning to address the table. His words fell into a silence in the hall.

“Does she know what you are?” His blue eyes raked Rikash with disgust. “Do they?”

“Not here,” Rikash hissed at Rory. “Do you want to spend the night in a cell?”

Rory rounded on him, then seemed to realize where he was. Under the eyes of the court, his resolve weakened, and he let Rikash guide him from the hall. Murmurs rose in their wake, swelling into the normal low roar of conversation. The moment the doors to the hall closed behind them, Rory punched him in the face. Rikash fell a step back, raising a hand to his throbbing jaw.

“You lied to me!” The guard advanced on him. Rikash ducked the next swing, shaking his head to clear it.

“I deserved that,” he told Rory. “But I didn’t know she was your sister.”

The guard snarled something and Rikash could smell the alcohol on his breath. There’d be no reasoning with him while he was drunk and angry. So when the guard lunged forward again, Rikash sidestepped and tripped him. Not exactly the most honorable move, but effective. Rory fell full-length on the floor, then rolled over with a groan.

Rikash offered him a hand up, but the guard refused. He sat beside Rory on the floor, leaving a careful arm’s distance. His jaw ached already. 

“Does she know?” Rory asked again, leaning back against the wall and breathing heavily. The red puffiness of his eyes could almost be attributed to alcohol alone.

Rikash shook his head slowly.

“By the gods. You have to tell her.”

A page hurried past, giving Rikash a moment to put his thoughts in order. He’d been debating the same thing all day, without arriving at any decision.

“Does it matter?” He asked Rory. The guard glared at him.

“Does it matter that my sister’s having a monster’s child and doesn’t know?”

Rikash flinched, drawing away from his friend. “You said it didn’t matter what I was before,” he said, unable to keep the dismay from his voice.

“Of course it matters,” Rory spat. “When it’s my sister!”

“I’ll care for her,” Rikash promised. “And the child.”

”Did she - I mean, you didn’t -“ Rory’s face twisted as though he were in pain, but he couldn’t get the words out.

”No,” Rikash said. He wanted to say that he would never hurt her, but a year ago he wouldn’t have flinched from tearing her limb from limb if he found her on the wrong side of the battlefield. “I didn’t take advantage of her.”

Rory sighed, rubbing a hand through his red beard. “Suppose I shouldn’t tell the whole court then,” he said, with the beginnings of remorse.

“Everyone in that hall who needs to know already does,” Rikash assured him. It had been an uncomfortable meeting with the Tortallan king and queen, but he had managed with some help from Daine and Numair.

“Except Aoife,” Rory argued, but his fury had faded. 

“We all have things in our past we would like to leave behind,” Rikash said. “What secrets Aoife and I choose to share will be in our own time.”

He offered Rory his hand again, this time to shake. “Truce?”

The guard grunted, but clasped Rikash’s forearm. They rose and stood awkwardly for a few moments. Rory swayed a little on his feet. 

“You’re not on duty, are you?” Rikash asked.

“In this state?” Rory chuckled and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The guard took a few steps away, then turned back. “We’re not finished with this. When I sober up, we need to talk, you, me, and Aoife.”

“I’d be delighted,” Rikash said resignedly, and pulled the heavy door to the great hall open. The noise of the crowd washed over him, and he longed for the cold, simple quiet of Dunlath. Or better yet, the empty sky with a thermal to climb and the sun on his wings.


	13. Waiting

It turned out, through long hours of practice with Numair, that Rikash had no talent for battle magic in this form. The feather blade hummed with the promise of violence, but refused to work with his Gift. Even the most basic of attack spells rebounded on him, if they didn’t simply fail. Instead, he was drawn to healing, the one skill Numair lacked. Daine joked he’d picked it from pure spite, but he wasn’t sure he’d had a choice.

In Dunlath, he had left a token for the Graveyard Hag at midnight of the longest night. Walking back to his room before dawn, he thought he saw her. An old woman tottered along the corridor, the fingers of one hand grazing the wall. Early mornings and late nights are the province of the very old and the very young, so his nocturnal walks through the fief had accustomed him to the cries of babies and the coughs and shuffling of the elderly. She waved him along when he came up behind her, but he slowed instead to match her pace.

“May I walk with you?”

The old woman laughed, a cheerful chuckle that ended in a cough. 

“Well, I won’t say no. It’s been a long time since a young man wanted to keep me company.”

Rikash smiled and took her arm. “Not so young as you think. Where are we going?”

“Just keeping my bones warm. Winters aren’t as long as they used to be, but they’re colder every year.” She turned cloudy grey eyes on him. “I don’t know you, and I know everyone in Dunlath.”

“Surely not everyone.”

She nodded, a mix of pride and resignation on her lined face. “Spent my whole life right here. I’ve seen most everyone born here the last eighty years. Well, not the last few years since I lost my sight. But I saw Yolane and Maura into the world, and their father too.”

The old woman kept rambling as they inched down the corridor, content to talk without expecting much by way of answer. She wheezed as she talked, the words falling into the harsh pattern of her breathing. Rikash was distracted, feeling a pull on his Gift. His fingertips tingled, a pale green glow gathering there. The old woman didn’t seem to feel anything, but when he focused on his magical sight, he saw a narrow ribbon of power connecting them. She stopped walking to cough again, and the magic flowed along her arm into her chest. He felt a tightness in his own lungs, but the spasm passed as the old woman straightened. 

“I told them no healers,” she said adamantly, freeing her arm. The ribbon of magic curled back into itself. “When it’s my time, it’s my time.”

She walked away with a little more life in her step, muttering to herself. “Think they can trick me with a new healer, but I’m no fool.”

Rikash watched her go, pressing his fingers to his chest where it had ached. He retreated to his room, finally feeling like he could sleep. 

Afterwards, he wasn’t sure it hadn’t been a dream. 

His Gift was barely under control. When he tried to use it, often nothing happened at all. Sometimes, though, it pulled at him. Someone would walk by, and it was as though there was a dim light around them. He tried, unsuccessfully, to explain it to Daine and Numair when he returned. It wasn’t a smell, or anything he could see, but he could feel the death in some people, inching closer. It drew him in, and when he touched them, his Gift responded. The healer in Dunlath taught him some more traditional methods, but he was always most successful with the patients whose illnesses called to him. They neither expected nor received miracles, but he could ease their pain and push back on their death for a time.

Here in Corus, the healing made him feel useful. The castle healers welcomed even unskilled hands when they were busy, and were more or less willing to teach a determined student when they were not. Spring brought the usual hay fevers, strained muscles, and broken limbs as the city returned to work. Rikash practiced his new skills, magical and otherwise, and waited for his child to arrive. 

The baby was born healthy, with a round pink face capped with dark hair like its mother’s. Wrapped in a soft woven blanket, it stared up at him with filmy eyes of no particular color. When it latched on to its mother’s breast, Aoife cried out in pain. Blood leaked from the corners of the baby’s mouth instead of milk. It turned to smile up at him, revealing tiny, pointed steel teeth.

Rikash wrenched himself awake, heart racing. Aoife lay asleep beside him, propped up on pillows but still snoring gently, one arm wrapped around her belly. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing in her warm sleepy scent mixed with the lavender oil she always wore. They’d been living together for the past month, and already she was so familiar to him. With the curves of her body fitted to his, he put his arm around hers and felt the baby shift inside her belly. Slowly, he relaxed back into sleep, listening to her peaceful breathing. 

The nightmares continued. This time, the baby was born dead and grey. It had misshapen wings instead of arms, covered in matted down feathers. It never breathed, a taloned half-human monster. Aoife screamed when she saw it, and he awoke again. 

The baby was due any day, and Rikash couldn’t shake his worries even in his sleep. Aoife didn’t know the truth about who he had been, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. She seemed well enough, but he knew nothing about human pregnancies. He wished he could cross to the Divine Realms and speak to the Green Lady. Sarra had been friendly to him, and a goddess of childbirth was exactly who he needed right now. Lacking both wings and immortal magic, he turned to the next best thing: Sarra’s daughter. 

Daine slipped out of Numair’s room at dawn to find Rikash waiting for her. He was sitting on the floor in the hall, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. When he turned to her, he looked more lost than she’d seen him in months. 

“I need your help,” he whispered.

Daine led him outside, to the stable. She had work to do, and the comforting scents of leather, hay, and horses never failed to calm her. Perhaps they would help Rikash too. Magelights on the walls glowed softly to life as they walked in. They sat in the tack room, and Daine handed him a bridle and a rag. Rikash tried to shake the images of the half-human babies, but they appeared behind his eyes with every blink. His hands worked on their own, scrubbing the leather clean of sweat and dirt, then rubbing oil into it. Daine did the same. The horses shifted and chewed their hay, and distantly the hostler snored. They were on their second set of bridles when he figured out what to say.

“Women have babies all the time,” he said. “Even god-born ones like you.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Daine understood.

“It’s normal for you to worry,” she assured him. “But you know there are midwives and healers here, and she’s young and healthy.”

“What if there’s something wrong with the baby? I keep imagining -“ Rikash stopped himself, unwilling to describe what had made him so horrified. “If it’s not human - if it hurts her - it’s my fault.” 

Daine put the bridle down on her lap. “Why would the baby not be human?”

“Did you forget what I was?” He jerked at the green stone pendant that hung below his ear. 

“No,” Daine said slowly. “But you’re not anymore. Did you talk to Aoife about this?”

Rikash shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “I can’t. She doesn’t know.”

“She. Doesn’t. Know.” Daine paused thoughtfully between each word. “Where does she think you came from?”

“She hasn’t asked,” Rikash answered. “We haven’t talked much about our past.”

“I would want to know,” Daine said, putting the bridles away. 

“If you were Aoife, would you be able to accept what I was?”

The look on Daine’s face was answer enough, no matter what she said. 

Aoife was already at breakfast when he came back from the stable. She picked a blade of hay from his hair when he sat beside her. 

“You were gone when I woke up,” she said. 

“Bad dreams,” Rikash admitted, rubbing her back. Aoife arched into the pressure like a cat, and he smiled. 

“What did you dream?” She asked. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’re just dreams. I don’t want you to worry.”

Aoife pushed her food over to him. She ate less now, with the baby taking up so much space inside her.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“It was about the baby, and about you. The women in my family have trouble giving birth,” he said carefully. 

“Well,” Aoife said, sliding over on the bench to tuck herself under his arm, “my mother and aunts had no trouble at all. Or so they keep telling me. The baby will be fine, you’ll see.”

It kicked, under his hand, and they smiled at each other. 

Daine sat down across from them, Numair trailing a moment behind her, yawning. The mage looked as though he was doing much more thinking than he wanted to, this early in the morning. Rikash sighed inwardly. He and Numair ate and ignored one another while Daine and Aoife chatted about the pregnancy; when Aoife left for the privy, Daine turned on Rikash.

“How could you not tell her?” Daine asked him.

“Magelet,” Numair began, but Daine refused to be placated. 

“At least my ma knew what Weiryn was!” She continued. “He didn’t lie to her about it.”

“I’m not lying,” Rikash said calmly. “You said yourself, that’s not what I am anymore, so there’s nothing to lie about. I’m human now, more than you are anyway. And Weiryn has antlers, which are tough to hide.”

Numair laughed, startling Daine out of her next argument. 

“He’s right, Daine. Besides, what good would come of telling her at this point?” 

“It’s not about good, it’s about honest,” Daine protested. “You wouldn’t lie to me about something so important in your past.”

“We’ve all been different people at some point in our lives,” Numair hedged. “Not as literally as Rikash, but the principle is the same.”

Daine scowled at both men, unconvinced, but when Aoife returned the girl didn’t press the issue. 


	14. Birth

Rikash remembered hatching: the desperate struggle to free himself from the suffocating confines of the egg into the unimagined world on the other side. Enticed by cries of fear and pain, and the sharp scent of blood, he broke through to find an enemy waiting. The warmth of the flock’s magic fell on them as they battled, down still damp from their eggs. Each moment of consciousness had been in the knowledge that the world wanted him dead. Human childbirth seemed worse. 

Aoife paced restlessly through the night as the pains came over her in waves. The first ones brought a fear he recognized, full of the knowledge that the pain would get worse. He rose to walk with her, but she sent him away. 

“It will be a long time yet, you should rest,” she told him. Another cramp hit her and she braced herself against his shoulder, gritting her teeth as her body did its work. When it passed, she shoved him gently. “I’m fine.” 

“I’ll get the midwife,” Rikash offered, but Aoife shook her head and went back to pacing. He waited, feeling useless; but when each pain hit she reached for him, and he held her. Dawn came slowly, as they marked time by the strength and frequency of her pains. The kitten watched them with her usual mix of superiority and anxiety. 

Aoife was damp with sweat, cold between her contractions and too hot during them. She leaned against the windowsill, bent nearly double. The pitch of her moans changed, and she panted. Rikash rubbed her back, where she pressed when the pains came on, and she squatted down to rest her head on the cool stone of the wall. 

“Go get Daine,” Rikash told the kitten. She stared blankly at him until the next contraction. When Aoife groaned the kitten fled, long legs flying, out the door. He hoped she would bring help. Aoife pressed her dress between her legs, and he heard the pattering of liquid on the floor. She gasped and doubled over, gripping his arm tightly. When the pain ended she stripped off her wet dress, kneeling on it to soak up the small puddle of fluid. Rikash smelled salt and blood. He took off his own shirt to cover her. Aoife’s eyes were wide and panicked. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she gasped. He stroked her damp hair back, and she squeezed his hand as the next pain came. 

“You can,” he assured her, when she had caught her breath. “You will be a wonderful mother.”

Aoife reached between her legs, and her whole face brightened with happy surprise. “It’s a baby,” she said. “I can feel it.”

“What did you think it was?” Rikash asked, smiling. His own fears about the baby hadn’t subsided, but he put them aside. Aoife groaned through the next contraction, the long muscles in her abdomen clenching as she bore down. Her face was red with effort when she stopped, and he touched his forehead to hers. She rested against him for a moment, breathing hard. Then she guided his hand to the baby’s head. He felt the softness of its hair, and a pliable skull; Aoife bore down again, clinging to his shoulders, and the baby’s face slid into his hands. There was a long minute of silence, broken only by Aoife’s harsh breathing. Rikash held still, too stunned to move. Then another contraction came, and one shoulder slipped free, followed by the other. The baby’s legs slithered out, trailing the cord, and he held an unmistakably human baby in his arms. Its face was red and squashed under a matted cap of dark hair, and when it opened its mouth and choked out its first cry, there were no silver teeth. Rikash lifted the baby into Aoife’s waiting arms. Under the shine of the birthing fluids, the baby’s skin was smooth. No down feathers, no wings. Ten fingers and ten toes. Aoife cradled it close, tears mixing with the sweat on her cheeks. She leaned back against the wall, eyes fixed on the baby. They breathed together, its small head resting on her chest. Already the baby’s mouth was opening and closing, looking for milk. Rikash sat beside them, relieved and exhausted, and checked one more time. No teeth. 

The baby latched on, Aoife wincing as the cramps began again. She leaned her head against his shoulder. The kitten reappeared in the doorway, tail held proudly. Daine was an instant behind, with the midwife in tow. 

“Looks like you have it well in hand,” the midwife said, smiling. Rikash looked at the mess of the room and reluctantly stood up. The midwife took his place, looking over the baby as it nursed, and helping Aoife with the afterbirth. Daine and Rikash cleaned up the floor and the discarded clothes, built up the fire, and remade the bed. 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Daine asked, while they worked.

“It’s human,” Rikash answered gratefully. “That’s all I know.”

The midwife washed the baby, despite its indignant protests, and wrapped it in a blanket. Aoife stood, trembling, and Rikash helped her into the bed. She didn’t let go of his hand, so he lay beside her. 

“Congratulations, it’s a healthy girl,” the midwife said, placing the baby in his arms. Aoife smiled at them, her tired eyes so full of love he barely recognized her. 

“You should name her,” she said. “Something from your family.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Rikash said. They had agreed on a boy’s name; Aoife had been certain all through the pregnancy that it was a boy. Her mother had assured her by the way she carried and how she had craved fruit, that it was a boy. And now there was this perfect, tiny, nameless little girl. Rikash stroked her cheek softly with his thumb, and she turned toward it. 

“Thyra,” he suggested, passing the baby to her mother. “It was my mother’s name.” 

Aoife tried out the name, cooing it down at the baby as she nursed again. 

“What do you think, little one? Thyra, for your grandmother? Better than my mother’s name anyway.” She looked up at Rikash, and he rested his head on her shoulder, watching the baby. “You’re a strange man, Rikash. There’s nothing I can think of that would make my brother be in the birthing room. And his wife is on her third.”

“Where else would I be?” He meant it seriously, but she laughed softly as she ran her fingers through his hair. Daine and the midwife had quietly left, pulling the door and curtains closed, so the new parents settled down to steal what sleep they could. 

Three days later, the trio made their way downstairs to the main hall for breakfast. Aoife was still shaky, but determined to stretch her legs. Rikash held the baby, who was newly fed and clean. The other maids swarmed them the moment they sat down, bringing food and cooing over the baby. Aoife took Thyra back, accepting the admiration as her due. Rikash slid along the bench to make room for what seemed like a never-ending crowd of women. Daine waved from across the room, but to his surprise it was Numair who joined him. The mage brought coffee, which was welcome. Thyra slept fitfully at night, wailing at irregular intervals and often for no reason he could find. He’d spent much of the last night walking the halls, bouncing the fussing baby in his arms.

“Glad to see they’re both well,” Numair said, nodding his head toward the baby and her beaming mother. “Are you going to marry her?”

“What?” Asked Rikash, disoriented by the sudden change of subject. He’d been thinking of breakfast, and sipping the too-hot coffee.

“The maid, with your child. Are you going to marry her?”

“Why?”

The mage looked startled. “So that the baby isn’t a bastard,” he said bluntly. “Give it a name.”

“She has a name: Thyra,” Rikash said. “I’m not a noble. My name means nothing, and I’m certainly not giving her my old one. Everyone knows she’s my daughter.”

Numair shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

Rikash felt more lost than usual, but chalked it up to sleep deprivation. The mage was quiet for a few minutes, watching the maids pass the baby around. Aoife was making quick work of her breakfast, one eye on Thyra. 

“It’s the right thing to do,” Numair said finally. “Ask Daine what it’s like to grow up without a father.”

“She won’t be without a father,” Rikash argued. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

The mage leaned on his elbows, steepling his long fingers together. He spoke quietly. “I’ve listened to you talk about Stormwing families, honor, and tradition for months. Listen to me on this one. I’ve been human for a few more years than you have, and you can never count on the future.” 

Rikash hadn’t seen Numair so serious before. Angry, once or twice, and often intent or curious, but never like this. He nodded, looking the mage in the eyes. 

“Then yes,” he answered. “I’ll ask her.” 

That evening, when Thyra had fallen asleep beside her mother, Rikash walked up the tower steps to stand on the wall. The air was cool, as the sun set, and he welcomed the breeze on his face after several days indoors. Daine was waiting for him in their usual spot. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” she said, patting the stone beside her. Rikash sat cross-legged with a sigh.

“I needed the fresh air,” he said, tipping his head back so the last of the sunlight fell on his face. “But I’ll be asleep in seconds if we try meditation.”

Daine laughed, but her eyes were troubled. 

“Don’t worry, Numair talked to me this morning. I’ll ask Aoife to marry me.”

If anything, the girl’s expression darkened. 

“Do you love her?”

“What?” 

Daine looked out, beyond the wall. “Do you love Aoife?”

“Does that matter?”

“So you don’t,” Daine said. 

Rikash sat up straight. “I don’t know,” he snapped, annoyance warming his blood. “She’s my daughter’s mother, so Numair says I should marry her. I’ve had mates before, and no one spoke of love.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Daine’s voice softened, and he knew she was thinking of Numair. 

“No. I don’t know.” 

“My ma raised me alone, as a bastard. There were always men around. She could’ve had her pick and made things simpler for us. But she loved my da, even though he wasn’t around.”

Rikash shifted irritably. He’d come up to the wall hoping for peace. “I met them, remember? What does that have to do with me?”

“I hated not knowing who my da was. But I think it would’ve been worse, if he’d stayed and blamed me for it.” Daine reached out for Rikash’s hands to soften her words. “If you don’t think you love her, don’t get married.”

Rikash pulled his hands away and got to his feet. From far below them he heard a baby crying, and realized he already knew Thyra’s voice. 

“I have to go. My family needs me.” He hurried away, feeling Daine’s eyes on his back. 


	15. Zusha: Part Three

“I know what you did.” Miska’s voice came from the darkness. His talons clicked on the stone of the cliff ledge as he shifted nearer to her.

“You don’t know your tail from a hole in the ground,” Zusha answered. The male snorted, but said nothing. Zusha’s wings twitched with anxiety. He couldn’t have seen. She had waited for the right opportunity, when no one was around. Still, she couldn’t help herself. 

“What do you think you know?”

Miska shuffled closer until she could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered. “You killed Felka. And you destroyed the nest.”

A thrill of nerves shot down Zusha’s spine, rattling her feathers as she drew herself away from him.

“That’s insane,” she hissed back. “Why would I do that?”

The half moon cast enough light that she could see him nod approvingly. 

“It was insane,” he agreed. “You are insane. Which is exactly why you and I can take over the clan. No one will see it coming.”

Zusha tipped her head to see him better. “If I were planning such a thing, why would I need you? Maybe I’ll kill you too.”

“You won’t,” Miska said, confidently. “Because you can’t beat Barzha Razorwing alone.”

“And you think you can?”

Miska laughed. “No, but together we could.”

“What do you want?”

He leaned in and kissed her. Zusha bit his lip, tasting blood, but he didn’t back down. He grabbed her throat, talons pricking her skin, and she let herself relax into the kiss. 

“Make me your consort,” Miska whispered against her lips. “We’ll take her down together. Then we’ll take anything else we want. The whole mortal world will be ours.”

With the bright taste of his blood in her mouth, Zusha agreed. She could always betray him later, once she was queen and Barzha was dead. 

“We will take everything.” Zusha kissed him again, her mind full of violence. She pictured the sentimental, aging queen broken on the ground as Felka had been, the black glass crown torn from her tangled dark hair. For once the clan would see her strength and vision, and respect her. They would bring terror into the lives of mortals once again, and regain their lost pride. 

Miska and Zusha flew side by side along a ridge line on a spring afternoon. They had spent the morning enjoying one another, and her body still tingled with the aftershocks of pleasure. She watched him with grudging appreciation as he rolled underneath her and out the other side, showing off. 

“We’re spending too much time together,” she called to him. “Barzha is going to suspect something.”

“No, she barely thinks of you at all.” 

The comment was off-hand and careless enough that she knew it was true, and not one of his calculated cruelties. Zusha bristled, leaning away from Miska to glide down the mountainside. He flapped quickly to catch up to her, and she let him. 

“That’s a good thing, Zusha. This will only work if she underestimates you.”

She turned away again, and he fell in beside her. 

“How do you know what she thinks of me?” Zusha asked with sudden suspicion. “Have you been talking to her behind my back?”

“Hebakh and I are close,” Miska said. “He complains, I listen. I told you that before, when I gave you the news about your brother the mortal.”

Zusha scowled. “That was you?”

“There are only fifty of us, Zusha. Is it too much to ask for you to remember me?” He sounded actually hurt, losing his customary arrogant tone. 

“What else does Hebakh complain about?” Zusha asked. It wasn’t an apology, but enoughof a concession of interest for Miska to regain some of his swagger. He flashed a grin at her.

“Everything,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “But mostly the same as the rest of us do. He wants things to change, and knows they won’t under her rule. We’re not made to starve in peace in the mountains.”

Zusha saw a rabbit and dived, pinning it to the ground. The creature trembled and screamed, sounding almost human. Miska landed beside her, watching as she lifted the rabbit off the ground. It jerked in her grasp, fighting to get away despite the blood leaking from its nostrils. She pressed her talons through the soft brown fur, and the rabbit screamed again. Its spine arched and then snapped with a final desperate kick. It fell limp and Zusha dropped it in disgust. The thin terror welling from the rabbit wasn’t enough. They needed their natural prey. 

Miska nudged the little carcass with his foot, watching Zusha intently. “All you had to do was trap it, and its own strength killed it.”

Zusha narrowed her eyes. “You have a plan then?”

His smile was all sharp teeth and satisfaction. 

It had been almost too easy. Miska was right: the queen’s own strength was her downfall. She was loyal and dedicated to tradition, and couldn’t imagine that her own people could be otherwise. Turning Barzha’s consort on her was the final piece of the trap. Hebakh was quick to complain, but slow to commit. Still, years of imprisonment in close quarters had strained their relationship. 

As spring turned into summer, her strict rules regarding the mortals brought tensions among the clan to a new peak. Then came the final insult, when Barzha left for Corus to meet with Rikash. Even now that he was mortal, Barzha relied on him and trusted him instead of Zusha, who thought only of the clan and not the needs of mortals. Miska winked at Zusha as he passed her, with the doomed queen and her reluctant consort. 

While they were gone, the youngest Stormwings began their rebellion with a clandestine raid on outlying mortal homes in the mountains. At their request, Zusha led them, and they fed their hunger for fear and vengeance and found that it only grew. That raid led to another, through the mountains and across the human borders that meant nothing to Stormwings. By the time they returned, sated, to the nesting cliff, the young Stormwings adored Zusha. 

Barzha was less pleased. She had returned from Corus to find her clan divided; the next full moon saw Zusha surrounded by her fellow revolutionaries. Miska sat beside her, wings half-spread in a show of relaxation. Only she could feel the nervous scratching of his rear claw on their branch. Barzha found herself alone, but for her consort. The rest of the clan waited. No one offered a challenge. They barely moved, the night air still but for the noises of frogs and insects. 

As she had done so many times before, Zusha broke the silence. 

“Barzha Razorwing!” She called, standing tall on her branch. The queen’s head jerked up in surprise, her elegant bow lips open. She raised an eyebrow, staring across the clearing at Zusha. 

“I challenge you for the crown,” Zusha continued. Barzha laughed. The black glass crown shone in the moonlight. 

“Does anyone support your claim?” Barzha asked, her feathers sleek with confidence.

“I do,” Miska said, and none of his nerves sounded in his voice. The queen ignored him, looking to the few remaining older Stormwings on her side of the clearing. Zusha’s allies rustled their wings in agitation, raising a clamor of metallic screeches and clicking. 

“I do!” Miska called again, and a dozen voices echoed him. Zusha grinned savagely, meeting Barzha’s dark eyes across the clearing. Hebakh shifted on the cliff beside the queen, swaying foot to foot. The younger Stormwings began to chant Zusha’s name, and she rose into the air to hover where they could all see her. She had promised them that under her rule, the mortal world would be theirs for the taking. Each Stormwing would have a say in the affairs of the clan, no longer bound to the whim of a queen who spared their rightful mortal prey at the expense of her own people. Miska’s loyalty drew in the young Stormwings, and Hebakh’s would draw in the old guard, assuming he followed through on his promise. They would lead together, not as monarchs but as advisors, using their experience to guide the clan. Zusha was disgusted by how easily the clan swallowed her lies. As always, they heard only what they wanted to hear.

With the clan’s cries buoying her courage, Zusha circled the clearing. Barzha watched her, stretching her wings slowly, joint by joint. Zusha met Hebakh’s pale eyes as she passed, reminding him of his promise without saying a word. The consort spread his wings, and the clan fell silent. 

“I support Zusha’s claim,” Hebakh said, his voice high and tense. Barzha turned slowly to look at him, and Zusha reveled in her expression of betrayal. Hebakh gulped, but flapped into the air to join Zusha. Miska whooped and leapt off his branch, and the clan followed him. Barzha looked up into a dark sky full of steel wings. Her crown glittered in scattered beams of moonlight through their feathers, and Zusha could see by the anger on her face that Barzha didn’t yet understand what was happening. If she had, she would’ve been afraid, not angry. 

Barzha tossed back her tangled dark hair, glaring up at Zusha. The clan drew back into a circle as the queen rose into the air to face her challenger. 

“You won’t win,” Barzha hissed. “I’ll spread your bones to the winds and the clan will forget your name.”

Zusha snarled wordlessly and the circle tightened around them. Barzha had eyes for no one but the red-haired usurper. The two females spiraled around one another, each trying to get the advantage of altitude. One false wingbeat or any hint of hesitation would be enough to end the duel in a few vicious, bloody moments. Zusha flexed her talons, watching from her peripheral vision as her co-conspirators rose with them. Barzha glanced to the side too, distracted for an instant by the flash of moonlight on feathers, and Zusha struck. Barzha dipped her wing, blocking Zusha’s talons, and rolled up and over Zusha. Miska waited overhead, and dove at the queen, raking his talons at her exposed belly. Barzha screamed, but it was fury instead of pain in her voice. She blocked Miska’s outstretched claws with her own, gripping his legs and flipping him over in the air. They fell past Zusha, who pulled her wings back to follow them down, watching Miska and the queen grapple as the sandy clearing came up beneath them. Miska struggled more desperately to get away, flapping his wings, but Barzha gripped him tightly. Zusha dove and grabbed the queen’s streaming hair in her talons, yanking her head back. Barzha released Miska, whirling to slash her primary feathers at Zusha. The two females climbed again as Miska hit the ground in a spray of sand. 

The clan circled more tightly around the dueling pair. Blood trickled down Zusha’s cheek from a cut in her brow, and Barzha held one leg limply, the talons unresponsive. Zusha feinted at the queen’s injured side, testing her weakness. Barzha ignored the feint, using the time to climb higher. In two quick wingbeats she had the advantage; Zusha looked up into steel talons. She rolled, and the queen’s claws screeched across her feathers and then the unprotected skin of her back. Zusha and Barzha cried out together, one in pain and the other in triumph. Hebakh dug his talons into Barzha’s back, beating his wings hard as their combined weight pulled them down. Miska met them in the air, his face scraped from the sand and his wingtips short a few feathers. He and Zusha struck together, clawing viciously at the queen’s sides. All four Stormwings plummeted through the circle towards the ground, sliver blood falling around them like rain. Hebakh let go first, flaring his wings to stop and wrenching his claws free from the torn ruin of Barzha’s back. Miska went next, bearing a shallow wound on his belly from Barzha’s talons. Zusha beat her wings, flipping the queen onto her back, and drove her into the ground. Even through the other female’s body, the force of the impact was stunning. Zusha fell forward onto Barzha and they rolled across the clearing. Zusha ended up on top, her talons locked into the queen’s lowest ribs. Barzha’s chest hitched under her as the queen fought for breath. Her dark eyes were wide with shock, blood seeping from her nostrils as it had from the rabbit’s. Zusha freed herself, watching new jolts of pain cross Barzha’s face as each of Zusha’s claws slid from her flesh. 

The clan stood in a silent circle as the dying queen jerked and twitched on the ground. Miska and Hebakh landed beside Zusha as she tore the black glass crown from Barzha’s head. They bowed to Zusha, and the rest of the clan followed suit. Miska put the crown on her head, a silent question in his eyes. She gave the tiniest nod, and Miska rounded on the unsuspecting Hebakh. The clan fell on the dead queen and her treacherous consort, and soon there was nothing left of them but bones, glinting silver in the moonlight.


	16. Another Time, Part Two

A half-finished letter waited for him on the writing desk, but Rikash felt too restless to finish it. The air was hot and still outside, an overcast threatening a storm that wouldn’t come. No word had come from Barzha in months, and Miska hadn’t returned. Rikash couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. This was the third letter to Maura in as many weeks, with no reply.

Even worse, he wasn’t certain he wanted to hear from them. His old life felt distant, compared to the immediacy of life with an infant. Thyra absorbed all his waking hours, if he let her; with little else to distract him, he marveled at all her small changes. Often when Thyra woke and cried in the night, he was by her side before Aoife even stirred. It was an excuse to get up, rather than trying uselessly to sleep. He wondered if insomnia was a human trait; it had certainly never bothered him before. Stormwings slept and woke with the sun, except on full moon nights.

Aoife was certain it was just the peace that was bothering him. 

“You’re used to being at war,” she had told him the night before, when one of his nightmares had left him wakeful. “You’ve forgotten that no news is good news.”

With the warmth of her body beside him, he tried to let the past go. He was mortal now, with a woman who cared for him and a baby to care for. It should’ve been enough, but the guilt wouldn’t let him be. 

“You asked me if I’d ever been in love.”

Daine looked up from watching Thyra learning to roll over on the hearthrug, curious but not wanting to seem too interested. There had been a group of musicians at dinner the night before, playing lively dancing tunes and then ballads. Rikash had danced with Aoife, and Daine hoped the other woman hadn't noticed his faraway look. They both had learned that Rikash told his stories in his own time, but she marveled at Aoife’s patience. 

He finished the letter he was writing, sanded it, and dripped wax for the seal. For Maura, Daire assumed, watching him press the tree-engraved stone into the wax. He didn’t have many other correspondents.

"I thought I was lying when I said no,” Rikash continued, once the letter was sealed and set aside. He'd give it to Miska, if the Stormwing returned; otherwise it would join the next messenger or merchant going north. "But since Thyra was born, I know I’ve never loved another creature like her."

He lifted the baby, who babbled happily at him. Daine smiled, watching them together. She'd had her doubts, but as the baby grew she became unmistakably Rikash's daughter. Thyra's eyes had darkened to his exact shade of green, and there was a similar hawk-like intensity in her little dark brows. Besides, he adored the baby. Daine never made the mistake of suggesting Thyra wasn't his again.

"Family love is something different,” Daine agreed, letting Koshka curl up in her lap. The kitten had grown, her grey points darkening, but she still disliked sharing Rikash with the baby, and craved attention. "Hard to believe you'd never met someone special before."

"You remember when I told you about Kalon, and the Divine Realms?"

Daine nodded. Thyra squirmed, and Rikash stood to walk around the room. The baby quieted, cuddled against him, and as he talked her eyes drifted shut.

After the barrier closed, and no immediate remedy presented itself, the Stormwing clans split up. Stone Tree nation flew north, finding space in mountains that looked a great deal like their home in the mortal world. Time passed differently in the Divine Realms, but when winter decided to come, Rikash felt he'd waited long enough. He asked permission to leave, and Barzha granted it. The queen was fairly new to her post, and without any mortals to draw them together, she'd allowed the clan to drift apart. A young pale-eyed male had been courting her since the barrier closed; Rikash wasn't sure what the beautiful, serious queen saw in nervous Hebakh, but as she allowed herself to be drawn into a romance, Rikash remembered his own.

Remembered was perhaps the wrong word: he had thought of Kalon with every storm, and every time he flew patrols along their border, he caught himself looking for the other male. No one in the clans nearby sported braids; Rikash's hair had fallen loose again, but for the first several days the weight of the little braid had been a constant, confusing reminder of what had happened between them.

Rikash flew south, stopping at a respectful distance each time he encountered a Stormwing sentry to ask after Kalon. Each clan said no, and he moved on. The hardwood forest faded into pines, then plains, until he was far enough south to feel salt in the humid air. Palms and live oaks grew on rises between swamps. Strange grey moss hung in long curling strands from the branches, soft but entangling underfoot. The green water smelled richly of decaying vegetation, and the thick mud discouraged any forays to the ground. 

Even the animal gods here were strange. A striking black and white bird floated along just above the treetops, long split tail feathers twisting behind it like ribbons. It piped a cry of warning when he passed above it, watching him warily from red eyes. Rikash wanted no quarrel with the little god, and flew on. Below, in the water, an impossibly large alligator stared up with cold yellow eyes, the scales of its back splitting the water for many yards. Its children grunted threats from the bank, unseen and all the more dangerous for it.

Rikash landed on a dead tree snag in the middle of a swamp, scaring off a pair of black vultures. The bird gods hissed at him as they lumbered into the air, but he bared his teeth and they moved along. He hadn't seen another Stormwing in days, and was beginning to think the journey had been in vain. 

As if to prove the land’s hostility, the sky began to darken. Clouds piled up impossibly fast, towering peaks heavy with rain. Rikash hunched his shoulders as thunder rolled and the first heavy drops of rain fell. The pair of vulture gods circled his tree and flapped away to the west, away from the storm. Rikashfollowed them, the rain drumming on his feathers. The vultures led him deeper into the forest, perching in a relatively dry space near the trunk of an enormous oak tree. Rikash nodded at them in thanks as the heavy canopy of leaves slowed the rain to a trickle. A steel-winged shape rose in the dimness ahead of him, and Rikash pulled up into a hover. The other Stormwing regarded him curiously, but without aggression.

“What do you want?" The female called out over the patter of the rain. She had dark coppery skin like Kalon, and a single braid fell from her curly dark hair.

“I’m looking for someone," Rikash answered, trying to see past her into the forest.

“Not from around here, are you?" The female asked, gliding forward to circle him. Rikash bristled defensively when she passed behind him, but she returned to hover in front of him and offered no violence.

He shook his head when he realized she hadn't meant the question rhetorically.

"I'm Rikash, from Stone Tree clan. I've been flying for months, looking for someone."

"You're one of Barzha's?" the female asked. Rikash nodded.

"I knew her before she was queen," the female continued, looking thoughtful. "But she was made to lead. I've never met a better fighter, or anyone more dedicated to tradition."

Lightning flashed, glinting off the female's black glass crown. Rikash realized belatedly he was in the presence of another queen, and bowed to her as best he could from his hover. She nodded back, her eyes smiling.

"I’m Queen Makani. My clan is sheltering nearby. Join us."

Rikash followed the queen deeper into the forest. Another huge tree hosted over a dozen Stormwings, and in each lightning flash he saw the glint of more steel wings among the trees. Makani landed beside a familiar Stormwing, leaning close to press her cheek to his. Kalon's teeth flashed in the damp gloom as he smiled at the queen, and Rikash's heart clenched to see their easy affection.

“Kalon, my love," the queen said, as Rikash landed on a lower branch nearby. "This is Rikash, a visitor from- "

"Stone Tree clan, right?” Kalon's voice was as deep and warm as Rikash remembered, resonant in his chest. "We met once in the mortal realm.”

Rikash made a sound of vague recognition, hoping the dim light of the storm hid the confusion on his face.

“He’s come all this way searching for a friend,” Makani continued, and Rikash clenched his talons into the branch, trying to conceal his embarrassment.

“Is that so?” Kalon slid a gentle claw through Makani’s hair, teasing out a knot. Rikash looked away, remembering exactly how that had felt. “Perhaps I’ll show him around once the storm passes, see if we can’t find this friend of his.”

True to his word, Kalon set off when the sun broke through the clouds, leaving the air heavy with moisture and even hotter than before. Rikash followed him, climbing in a spiral through the canopy of trees and out into the open sky. The swamps and forests spread out in brown and green splashes below them. Towards the horizon, the sea glittered against a bright line of sand.

“I wish you hadn’t come here,” Kalon said, when Rikash flapped up to soar beside him. A wide thermal rose from a patch of dark stone, carrying them aloft.

Rikash’s confusion boiled up into anger.

“So do I,” he spat, glaring at the other male. “You could’ve told me you were a consort, and spared me the trip.”

Kalon had the courtesy to look ashamed. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“You told me you were alone,” Rikash said.

“I was.” Kalon looked away. “Makani exiled me, for decades.”

Rikash followed again as Kalon slid off the thermal and glided toward the sea.

“When the realms closed, I found myself near the clan again,” Kalon continued. They stood together on the sand as they had when they first met. “You had vanished, and Makani called me. She forgave me, and when we left the eyrie to come south, it was like we’d never been apart.”

“I looked for you at the eyrie,” Rikash said, anger slipping away into resignation. He understood the bounds of duty to a queen; for a consort, there could be no question of loyalty. Kalon glanced at him with uncharacteristic shyness.

“I saw you,” he admitted. “You’re hard to miss.”

Rikash felt his feathers ruffle with pleasure at the compliment, and had to remind himself he was supposed to be angry. 

“What had you done that needed to be forgiven?”

Kalon shook his head, the bones shivering together as the braids fell over his shoulders. “You should go back to your own clan, Rikash. There’s nothing here for you.”

After several days with Makani’s clan, Rikash knew Kalon was right. Whatever they might have had wasn’t worth breaking the bond between the queen and her consort.He returned to Barzha and his own clan, to wait out the time until the realms opened to them again. There were other lovers, and even a few he trusted enough to help him braid in his own collection of souvenirs. Every time he heard the click of the bones, though, or felt the long braids lash along his back as he flew, he thought of Kalon. First loves and lost loves are the hardest to forget. 

A caustic laugh came from the window, startling Thyra awake. She wailed as Daine jumped to her feet, but Rikash only bounced the baby gently and glared at the Stormwing on the sill. 

“I doubt those stories did you any favors with your own kind,” Miska said, “but apparently mortal females are less selective.” 

He leered at Daine. She looked him up and down, hands on her hips, unimpressed. 

“You should consider yourself lucky I’m not armed,” Daine said. Rikash knew the lack of a weapon was no impediment, if the wild mage needed to defend herself, but doubted Miska did. Thyra whimpered, arching her back and waving her little arms. Miska’s eyes snapped to the baby, and his lip curled. 

“Tell me you didn’t mate with one of them,“ the Stormwing said, taking in the baby’s features. “Even you wouldn’t fall so low.”

“Are you here for a reason, Miska?” Rikash’s voice was cold. 

Miska shuddered dramatically, still staring at Thyra. “Wait until your sister hears about this. She’ll be beside herself.”

“I’m no longer concerned with what my sister thinks, let alone you.” Rikash spoke gently, rocking Thyra, but his eyes were fierce. “There’s a letter for Dunlath on the desk, Daine. Give it to Miska so he can go inflict his presence on someone else.”

“As much as I love visiting your little friend in Dunlath, I’m not your messenger,” Miska said, but he took the sealed letter when Daine held it out. The wind gusted through the window, bringing the Stormwing’s stench with it, and both humans took an involuntary step back. Koshka arched her back and hissed, then fled stiff-legged under the bed. Miska laughed, shaking out his wings. 

Rikash heard Aoife’s step on the stairs just as she called out to him.

“Ugh, Rikash, what is that -“ Aoife began, as she came into the room. The sight of Miska on the window ledge shocked her into silence, and she looked frantically for Thyra. Miska watched her with avid interest, leaning into the room, and Rikash knew he was enjoying her fear. Rikash handed the baby to Aoife, who took her and hurried to the furthest corner from Miska. 

“Two mortal lovers, Rikash? You do get around.” Miska licked his lips, watching Aoife.

Daine scowled and moved to the window, grabbing the latch to pull the heavy wooden shutter closed. 

“We’re friends,” she scolded the Stormwing. “Although I doubt you even know what that means.” 

She let the shutter fall and they heard the clatter of his wings as Miska dropped from the ledge and flew away. 

“Suppose you tell me what that was all about, then,” Aoife demanded, stroking Thyra’s back. The gesture seemed more to soothe herself than Thyra; the baby had forgotten her fear and bounced happily in her mother’s arms. Aoife looked between Daine and Rikash expectantly. 

“I should go,” Daine said, clearly uncomfortable. She slipped out past Aoife with a small, apologetic smile. 

“Messenger,” Rikash offered. “From Dunlath.”

Aoife pursed her lips, frowning. “Your friend uses Stormwings as messengers?”

“Apparently so,” Rikash said. “I’m sorry he frightened you and Thyra.”

“I’m not afraid, I’m angry,” Aoife snapped. Her tone left no room for negotiation. “If one of those monsters comes to the window again, you’ll take my daughter out of the room before you speak to it.” 

“They wouldn’t hurt a child,” Rikash argued, knowing as he did that it was the wrong thing to say. It would’ve been so easy to just agree with her. He wondered if the reflex to defend them would ever leave. 

Aoife gaped at him.

“They eat people,” she hissed, pressing Thyra’s head to her chest to cover her ears, as though the baby could understand. “They ate my husband, and you talk about them as if they were human!” 

Rikash couldn’t think of any defense without revealing too much of his own past. Aoife stormed out. 

“She’s my daughter too,” Rikash said, belatedly, to no one.

Aoife stayed with her mother in the city for three days. With her and Thyra gone, Rikash spent most of his day with the healers. While he was working, easing other peoples’ small hurts, he could bury his own. Rory visited his sister, but came back shaking his head.

“She’s always been stubborn,” he said by way of commiseration. “Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”

Rikash was less certain, and still annoyed. If she wasn’t in a forgiving mood, neither was he. 

“I’d never put Thyra in danger,” he said. “I’m her father. Aoife should trust me to care for her.”

“Sure, but you’ve not been honest with her,” Rory said. “Maybe if she knew who you were, she’d understand.”

Rikash laughed, harsh and humorless. “She left because a Stormwing visited me. I doubt she’d be more open-minded about having one in her bed.”

“Give it time then,” Rory advised, with a shrug. “My wife has needed her space before. Luckily I’ve got the guardhouse here, or I’d have slept on the street more than once.” 

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Aoife said, when he came back to their room to find her there. He was worn out from healing, his Gift drained and his hands smelling of herbs and alcohol. Thyra was asleep in her cradle, and just seeing her tiny shape under the blanket eased the tension in his shoulders. 

“I’m glad to see you,” Rikash said. He stood in the doorway, uncertain of how to greet her. Aoife folded a blanket in her hands over and over, looking anywhere but at him. 

“No more unexpected visitors?”

“No,” Rikash said. “But I can’t promise he won’t ever come back.”

“Why was it here?” 

“I told you, he brought a message.”

“You lied.” Aoife didn’t sound angry, or even sad. Her voice was flat. “You’re not very good at it.”

Rikash looked away, the whole truth rising in his throat, choking him. 

Aoife sat down on the side of the bed and patted the blanket. The distance between them felt endless, but somehow Rikash crossed the room to sit beside her. 

“I’ve never asked you about your past, and you never asked about mine. That’s fair; there are things neither of us wants to talk about.” Aoife took his hand, turning to face him. “But if we’re going to make a future together, the three of us, I need to know I can trust you.”

She made it sound so easy. She had no idea what he was hiding, and how it might affect their lives. Rikash traced her fingers with his, relief at her return warring with his certainty that she would leave again if she knew. Aoife was watching his face, so he met her eyes and promised. 

Her body had changed with the pregnancy, hips and breasts growing round as her belly did.Angry purple stripes appeared on her sides as the skin stretched. They had faded to silver, rippling lines like sun on the water. Rikash stroked his fingers down her hips, feeling the marks that her body’s transformation had left behind. She’d been embarrassed by the changes, at first, reluctant to undress in front of him except during her labor, when her body’s instincts overrode her modesty. He remembered well the feeling of not belonging in his own body, and how she had helped him to reclaim it. He relearned her body that afternoon, both of them careful and quiet with Thyra asleep nearby. Their new trust was fragile, but each touch drew them closer together. 

When she fell asleep, her head on his chest making his arm tingle as it grew numb, he stared at the interlocking stones of the ceiling. She looked so peaceful and innocent in sleep that he couldn’t bear to look at her. Aoife deserved someone better than him, someone who didn’t have to lie about his entire life. Already he regretted his promise, but he wasn’t strong enough to tell the truth and risk losing her. 

Months passed and winter came, then spring, and they had no more Stormwing visitors. They were married in the spring, in front of the shrine to the mother goddess, exchanging silver rings. The ritual was important to Aoife, but Rikash was just glad that it was done, and that a certain other goddess had stayed away. This was the life he had chosen, and he tried to let the old one go. 


	17. Zusha: Part Four

“What more do you want?” Miska asked. “We won. The mortal world is ours.”

Zusha hunched her shoulders, looking down at the sandy clearing below. The black glass crown slipped, sharp edges digging into her forehead. A wisp of her hair clung to the drop of silvery blood that trickled down like a tear. He was right. They had won. Barzha and Hebakh were gone. Zusha was queen, but somehow it didn’t feel like a victory. There was still one more thing to do.

“I have to kill him,” she muttered. 

Miska fluttered his wings, hopping a step back. 

“Who?” He asked, and she was gratified to hear a thread of fear in his voice. He should be afraid of her. They all should. Fear was power.

“My brother,” Zusha hissed, stretching her own wings lazily. She watched Miska from the corner of her eye. He would make a good example, for the others, of what happened when they grew too familiar. She could always find another consort.

“Rikash? He’s dead, or as good as,” Miska said, baffled. “He’s mortal, remember? Living in Corus with a human mate and child.”

He knew instantly he’d made a mistake. Zusha whirled on him, leaping into the air to knock him on his back. She beat at him with her wings and slashed with her talons, ignoring his ineffectual defense. It was treason for him to hurt her now. 

Miska froze when one of her talons wrapped around his throat. She planted the other on his chest, and he felt the point of each claw sink into muscle under her weight. He gasped for air, struggling against her grip, wings flailing at the ground. The world began to darken, closing in until all he could see was her snarling face and her mad blue eyes. Miska went limp, and Zusha eased her grip enough so he could drag air into his lungs.

“He has a child?” Zusha asked, sounding weirdly calm and distant to his oxygen-deprived brain. He wondered why it mattered so much to her. She’d killed their hatchling before it had a chance at life, so it couldn’t be jealousy. Her brother would be dead soon enough, while she had centuries to look forward to. Or possibly less, he corrected himself, if she kept behaving like a lunatic. He tried desperately to think of the right answer as she clenched her claws slowly together through the flesh of his chest. 

“A mortal child,” Miska gasped, the words coming hard through his crushed throat. “I saw her, and her mother, last summer.” 

“You should have told me.” Zusha sounded disappointed now. “I thought I could trust you.”

She released his throat and raked her talons free. He couldn’t restrain a scream as the muscles of his chest tore away. Standing over him, Zusha raised her claw to her mouth and licked it clean of his meat and blood. Miska struggled to his feet, head bowed low. His left wing drooped, the ruined muscle twitching. Zusha looked him over with disgust.

“Pull yourself together. We attack the village today.”

Miska nodded, standing tall and gritting his teeth against the pain as he forced his wing to close. Blood flowed freely down his belly to puddle at his feet on the stone. 

“What about your brother?”

“He will come, once he hears what we’ve done.” Zusha grinned. “We’ll burn the village and hold the castle and his little mortal friend in siege until he arrives. Then we’ll let him in, and bring the whole castle down on his head.”

She took off, and Miska groaned in relief as he let the injured wing fall. It had taken all his willpower to hold it against the searing pain while she watched. He flexed it cautiously, looking down the cliff face at the sand hundreds of feet below. The wing would extend, but drawing it in was pure agony. He looked up to find Zusha watching him, circling overhead.

“Fly or fall,” she said coldly. “I’ve no need of a consort who holds me back.”

Miska looked around for support from the other Stormwings nearby, but none of them dared to speak against her. They rose into the air to join Zusha, until he was the only one on the ledge. Her expression of disgust deepened with every moment. The muscles of her shoulders tightened as she prepared to stoop on him, and he saw no lenience in her eyes. It was death by her talons or death on the ground below. Miska jumped, and the wind caught him. The injured wing collapsed and he yanked it straight, again and again. Dizzy from blood loss, it was all he could do to lock the wing out and glide in Zusha’s wake. She mocked him as they flew, and his friends laughed with her. He would’ve laughed too, if it were happening to someone else. 

The forest ended abruptly and the village appeared below them. The mortals had grown used to seeing the Stormwings flying overhead, and few even looked up. Zusha’s grin was feral as she picked her first target. 

“Kill them all!” She cried. “And burn the village to the ground.”

The mortals nearby looked uneasily at one another, but none of them were quick enough to run. Miska breathed in their terror as the flock descended, and his pain eased enough that he could follow his queen one more time


	18. Nightmare

Rikash lay on his back, the first thunderstorm of the summer drenching him. Raindrops slid coolly off the bare skin of his chest and face, and pattered on the warm stone of the wall. An arc of lightning traced its way across the sky, followed closely by its accompanying roar of thunder. 

Rory watched him anxiously from the shelter. The guard had sent for Daine when Rikash walked past him without a word and out into the storm. Her footsteps came out along the wall and she sat beside Rikash, wrapped more sensibly in an oilskin cape. The sky flashed again, thunder drowning out the rain. Daine tipped her face up, eyes closed, as Rikash was doing. The rain washed down her cheeks, soaking into her clothes beneath the cape. It was pleasantly cool after the heat of the day. The pair was quiet for a few minutes, watching the storm. 

“I couldn’t do this before,” Rikash said finally, eyes still closed. 

Daine turned to look at him, resting back on her hands. Perhaps Rory was wrong to be so worried. It was a strange thing to do, but the castle residents should have been used to that. 

“I always thought your people would love this weather, given their name,” she said. 

“Mortals named us,” Rikash sighed. “Metal draws lightning. And steel can rust. My people avoid storms.”

Daine made a mental note for Numair. “What do they call themselves?”

He opened his green eyes finally, giving her a disparaging look. “What do your animal friends call themselves? Mortals named them too.”

“The People,” Daine said. 

“All people think they’re the only real People,” Rikash told her. “Everyone else is something other. Lesser.”

She’d never heard him sound so bitter, not even when he was first transformed. 

“What happened?” Daine asked, pitching her voice too low for Rory to overhear. 

Rikash turned his face away again, up towards the sky. The rain was easing, individual clouds separating from the grey mass. A bolt of lightning split the horizon, and Daine counted to four before the thunder followed. 

“Maura’s people didn’t attack my clan,” he said. The letter had arrived earlier that day, bearing the Dunlath seal. He’d expected a resolution to her investigation, but not this. 

“They didn’t even know where the nest was,” Rikash’s voice was flat. “And none of the villagers would have dared to climb the cliff, let alone attack a Stormwing.”

Daine could hardly disagree. She’d fought his people before, most often on the trigger end of a crossbow. Trailing them to their nest sounded foolhardy, if not suicidal.

“Then who did?” Daine prompted, when he didn’t immediately offer an explanation. 

Rikash sat up, wiping the rain from his face. “She’s gone too far,” he said. “She’s always been jealous and unpredictable, but this is unforgivable.”

“Your sister?” Daine guessed. 

“I have to go after her.” Rikash wrung the water from his hair, the green stone shining.

Daine stood when he did, blocking the way. 

“Wait, Rikash,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest to stop him. “Won’t the clan deal with her? You’re not able to fight her alone anymore.”

He snarled, and for the first time in over a year she could see the Stormwing he had been. “She killed Barzha too. Zusha is queen of Stone Tree.” Rikash pushed Daine aside, and Rory started forward. 

“Think, brother,” the guard said. “You can’t go after a Stormwing queen by yourself. What about Aoife and Thyra?”

Rikash paused. “They’re safe here, with you. Watch over them, while I go north and see this through.”

“And if you don’t come back? What do I tell my sister when she’s widowed a second time?” Rory’s eyes pleaded above his red beard. Rikash turned away from him, but Daine was right behind him. 

“He’s right,” Daine said, touching the silver claw she wore around her neck. “I know what it’s like, wanting revenge, and I’m not going to stop you when the time comes. But you’re not alone. Let your friends help you.”

Rory put a big hand on his shoulder. “You told me once that you were a soldier. So you know there’s a time for planning and a time to fight.”

Rikash sighed, and his shoulders fell. The air behind the storm was warm and still. Rory handed him his shirt. 

“Go see your family,” Rory ordered. Daine nodded in agreement.

“I’ll get Numair, and meet you in a few hours.”

The rain had cooled his anger enough that he knew his friends were right. Aoife wasn’t in their room though, when he returned, and his conviction wavered. She’d gone back to work, once Thyra started eating. The maids took it in turns to watch their children in a crèche, so when Rikash and Aoife were busy there were plenty of willing babysitters. It still felt odd, coming back to an empty room, but Thyra seemed to enjoy the time with other toddlers. She had learned to crawl, chasing after Koshka and getting into everything, so he knew Aoife welcomed the break. 

Rikash changed into dry clothes and packed a bag to travel north, then dropped his latest letter to Maura into the fire. He sat with the writing desk on his lap, quill drying out as he tried to think of the most honest explanation for Aoife. It would be easier to tell her in a letter. 

Numair and Daine were in his room before he had managed to put any words on the paper, to talk him out of leaving. 

“Think about it for a minute, Rikash,” Numair said. “What would you have done, if a mortal tried to interfere in your clan’s affairs?”

“I’m not -“ Rikash seethed, clenching his fists in frustration. “I’m not just any mortal. They’re my family.”

“Are they?” Numair’s gaze was steady. Rikash knew the mage was right, but knowing didn’t make it any easier. “Your family is here. They need you more.”

“She’s insane,” Rikash argued instead. “I can’t just let her take over the clan.”

“She already has,” Daine said. “What’s done is done.”

He tried to imagine how Barzha would have let herself be killed by Zusha, but no honest fight would have played out that way.

“Wait and see what happens,” Numair counseled. “You reminded me once that the Stormwings have centuries to work with. There’s no reason to think anything will change overnight.”

“Besides, the news from Dunlath is days old, if not more,” Daine added. “Waiting another few days won’t do any harm.”

Rikash woke from a nightmare and turned to wrap an arm around Aoife. She shifted closer, warm and sleepy, winding her fingers through his. Behind his closed eyes, the memory of the dream played over and over. Zusha, wearing the black glass crown, leading the clan to the village of Dunlath. Humans running in fear as the Stormwings stooped on them, talons wide. His sister carried a burning torch from one thatched roof to another, laughing at the screaming mortals as they tried to escape. Some of the men tried to fight back, swinging scythes and axes when the Stormwings flew low enough. One man succeeded, burying his axe in a dark-haired male Stormwing’s belly. Zusha shrieked and pointed a talon at him. There was a red-gold flash and the man exploded. The rest of the villagers began to fall back, abandoning their homes and fleeing up the long causeway to the castle. Inside the houses, those who could not escape screamed and coughed, and slowly fell silent. 

Rikash could smell the thick, dark smoke as the village burned, even now that he was awake. He heard their screams and Zusha’s mad laughter. Aoife felt him trembling and rolled over into his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“She burned Dunlath,” he whispered.

“It was just a dream,” Aoife said, stroking his hair. She often woke to the aftermath of his nightmares, but the past few nights had been worse than ever. “We’re safe. The war is over.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised, pulling away to look at her in the dim moonlight. “She won’t get to you and Thyra.”

“Who, Rikash?” Aoife’s first husband had been the same, after his first battles and before the one that had killed him. Sometimes helping him to confront his fears had made him realize that they weren’t real, or at least not present. “Who has made you so afraid?”

He rolled on his back but she followed him, pillowing her head on his chest. Aoife waited, his heart racing under her fingertips.

“There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago,” Rikash began. At the end of the bed, Koshka’s ears pricked up. A moment later, Thyra wailed. Rikash slid out of bed and picked up the baby, holding her close. Aoife sat up against the headboard and opened the neck of her chemise, wincing at the half-painful tingle as her milk came down. Rikash handed the baby to her, but didn’t come back to bed. As Thyra’s cries faded into happy snuffling sounds, Aoife watched her husband dress and pace around the room. 

“What were you going to tell me?” Aoife asked finally, shifting the baby to her other breast. Rikash froze, rubbing the green stone in his hair as he often did when he was stressed. Not for the first time, Aoife wondered about his family, and his past. She tried not to push him, but perhaps tonight’s dream would let him open up. 

“Nothing,” he said, coming to sit beside her. “It’s the middle of the night. You should get some sleep.”

“So should you,” Aoife returned, squeezing his hand on the blanket. He gave her a small smile. 

“Not tonight.” Rikash kissed Thyra’s tiny brow, then her mother’s. Aoife watched the door close, her expression tight and worried.

The magelights along the corridors glowed to life as he passed, dimming away again behind him. The castle was quiet. Even most of the servants were asleep at this hour, although he could smell the morning’s bread baking. Koshka trotted behind him like a shadow. Rikash tapped on the door to Numair’s workroom. The mage’s long nose poked out around the door. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Numair asked.

“No,” Rikash said, keeping his voice low.

“Pity. Neither do I.” The mage swung the door open and gestured Rikash in. 

“Is Daine here?”

“She’s asleep, like all the other sensible people.” Several candles burned low on Numair’s table. Bits of wire and stones glinted in the light, with tools for making jewelry. The mage shut the door behind him. Like Rikash, he was fully dressed despite the late hour. Rikash wondered if the man ever slept. He picked up a small gemstone and rolled it between his fingers. 

“Be careful,” Numair warned. Koshka twined around his ankles, purring. “You shouldn’t just touch things in a mage’s room.”

“I’d see if it had harmful magic,” Rikash protested, but dropped the stone again. The mage leaned against the table and yawned.

“Do you need something?”

“What do you know about scrying?”

Numair gathered his long black hair and tied it back. “What do you want to know?”

“I had a dream,” Rikash said, and then decided to be honest. “Many dreams, that seemed real. I want to know if they are.”

“Most dreams are just that,” Numair said. “Gainel rarely sends true dreams. Although he might offer advice or warnings, often we don’t understand them until it’s too late.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rikash said. He knew well the power of mortal dreams.

“Scrying is extremely difficult magic, not for beginners.” Numair pulled out a flat piece of black glass. “I can’t teach you tonight, but I can try to see enough to ease your worries.”

Rikash focused on his magical sight and watched the mage’s power flicker around the glass like a frame.

“Where do you want me to look?”

“Dunlath,” Rikash said, and cleared his throat. “I dreamed the village burned to the ground.”

Numair’s brows drew together, and he turned to stare into the piece of glass. Rikash picked up Koshka, who was trying to bat Numair’s tools onto the floor. The mage stiffened and drew in a breath. Rikash saw flames reflected in his eyes for an instant, and knew. 

Numair scribbled a note and sealed it. “We have to go. I’ll wake Daine and meet you in the stable at sunrise. Give this to the guard outside the door. It’s for the king and queen.”

“Sunrise,” Rikash agreed, taking the note. He turned for the door, then back. “How bad is it?”

Numair shook his head, face grave and pale. 

Thyra was asleep again, curled up in Aoife’s arms. Rikash lay beside them for a moment as the room began to lighten. He’d packed the few things he needed, and the bag waited by the door. Careful of the baby between them, he kissed Aoife’s cheek and shook her shoulder to wake her. 

“I have to go,” he whispered. 

“Where?” Aoife asked in alarm, trying to sit up without shifting Thyra. 

“Dunlath,” Rikash explained. “Something terrible has happened there.”

“What does that have to do with you?” 

Rikash shook his head. “The lady there is my friend. If I can do anything to help...”

“Of course,” Aoife said, eyes wide in the dark room. “What happened?”

“There was a fire. The village was destroyed.”

“I’ll come too,” Aoife said. “I can help.”

Rikash shook his head again. 

“It’s dangerous. I’ll be back before summer ends.” 

“What aren’t you telling me?” Aoife asked, her voice rising. Thyra shifted between them, and Rikash stood.

“I’ll miss you,” he said. “And Thyra. Be safe.” He crossed the room quickly, swung his bag onto his shoulder, and was gone without looking back.

The ride to Dunlath this time felt endless. Rikash and Daine carried their bows strung on their backs, and he had the feather sword ready at his side. Numair carried only his staff, sitting uneasily on his usual piebald gelding. The trio scanned the skies with all available senses, wary of Stormwings. Behind them, the castle was rallying its resources, creating a wagon train with relief supplies. 

About a day’s ride out of the city, a rider approached them at a gallop and they hailed him. 

“Can’t stop,” the messenger said, his horse sidling along the road, already lathered. “I’ve a message for the king, from Dunlath.”

Daine and Numair exchanged dark looks.

“What happened?” Daine asked. “We’re going that way.”

The messenger looked stricken. “Turn around, miss. The village is gone.”

He dug his heels into the horse and hurried away. Rikash gripped the reins so tightly that the scar on his hand ached. His dun gelding tossed his head in protest. Numair led the way now, jaw set.

“Tell me more about your dream,” he demanded. 

“You dreamed this?” Daine asked. Rikash swallowed hard, seeing the flash of steel wings reflecting the flames. 

“It was Zusha,” he said, hearing the weight of his own guilt in his voice. “She attacked the village with the whole clan. She’s gone mad. We’re not supposed to kill innocent mortals.”

Numair looked dubious. “Stormwings have attacked Daine and me many times. You have a rosy view of your clan, Rikash. They’re not all like you.”

“You were fighting against us,” Rikash argued. “We had orders.”

“I’m sure your friends had orders in Dunlath too,” Daine said, her face stoic and fixed. 

“They’re not my friends,” Rikash said, but the defense felt weak even as he offered it. He kicked the gelding into a trot as the mountain passes came into sight, filled with a low grey haze. 

That night, as they tried to sleep, Rikash heard the screaming again. He saw the flashing steel wings and heard his sister laugh. This time, though, it was Thyra and Aoife’s voices, instead of strangers’. He awoke in the dark and stared through the branches at the stars overhead, smeared by the smoke. At least he knew his family was safe in Corus, far from Zusha’s cruelty. 

The smoke thickened as they approached what was left of the village of Dunlath. With one bend to go until they reached the village, Daine asked the horses to stop. They stood, fidgeting and nervous, while Daine reached out with her magic. 

“There is only one Stormwing waiting. The rest are miles away.”

“Zusha?” Rikash asked, but Daine shrugged. They rode three abreast along the road, letting the horses pick their way through the smoke and ash. The blackened stone walls of cottages loomed on either side, thatch roofs burned away. The carefully tended gardens were reduced to cinders, fences for livestock smoldering in neat lines on the ground. Human corpses were piled in doorways or near the windows of burned-out homes, where they had been trapped inside. Others had died defending themselves, slashed by talons or razor-sharp feathers and left to bleed out where they fell. Most bore marks of Stormwing attention after their death, bitten and dismembered and smeared with dung. 

In the center of the village, lying on his back in the middle of the road, was a familiar dark-haired male Stormwing. Burns reddened and blistered the bronze skin of what was left of his chest, and soot was creased into the lines of pain in his face. His intestines trailed from a jagged wound in his belly, tangled around his talons from his crash landing. Rikash was sure he was dead, but Miska opened his eyes when the hoofbeats approached him. 

“She knew you would come,” Miska croaked. “She’ll meet you up at the castle.”

Rikash swung down from the saddle, crouching at a safe distance from the Stormwing’s feathers and talons. Miska watched him from sunken, red-rimmed eyes. 

“I didn’t think she would betray me so quickly,” he said, trying for a cocky grin. It faded into a grimace of pain, and he hissed a curse at the absent Zusha. “We betrayed Barzha together. And she killed Felka. Couldn’t expect her to treat me any differently.”

“Looks like a mortal got you,” Rikash said, gesturing to the axe laying beside the dying Stormwing. The heavy blade was sticky with silver blood. Flies darted between the axe and Miska’s wounds, and he shuddered as they landed and bit and laid their eggs. 

“It would’ve ended the same for me,” Miska said, voice growing fainter. “She wasn’t going to let me survive the battle. Not very good at sharing, your sister.”

“What battle?” Numair had joined Rikash, towering over Miska. The gem in his staff glowed softly. 

Miska laughed, then groaned as his wounds shifted with the movement. “She’s going to destroy the castle, then move south. Queen Zusha isn’t content to rule just Stone Tree nation. She wants all the mortals to bow to her.”

“That will never happen,” Daine said, from her seat on Cloud’s back. She looked shaken. “She’s insane.”

“They’ll kill all of you,” Rikash said. Numair looked down at him.

“You’re worried about the Stormwings? Look at what they’ve done here!” 

Miska bared his teeth. “This is only the beginning.” 

Daine’s crossbow clicked as she loaded a bolt, but Rikash raised a hand to stop her. 

“He’s dying,” Daine said. “It’s cruel to leave him like this.”

“If ever someone deserved it,” Numair muttered, walking back to his horse. 

Rikash stood and drew the feather sword, looking down at Miska’s mangled body. The Stormwing stared at the blade, then tipped his chin up, looking into the smoke-filled sky. The pulse beat weakly in his neck. He gasped for breath, short, painful panting. Rikash lowered the point of the sword to Miska’s throat, and flicked the blade. It cut cleanly, one fine line down to the bones. The Stormwing jerked once and lay still. Flies swarmed his body, then rose up again in a cloud as new hoofbeats came up the road. 

Rikash wiped his sword clean, leaving a smear of silver blood along the dun gelding’s saddle blanket. Daine and Cloud wheeled, crossbow ready. Numair cast a shielding spell, and the newcomer halted. 

“Rikash?” She called. “Is that you?” 

Daine lowered her bow as Rikash hurried forward. 

“Aoife?” He could hear her screams from his nightmare, and his fear made him angry. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay in Corus.”

“I was worried about you,” Aoife said. “You left so suddenly.” 

“This is no place for you!” Rikash gestured at the smoldering cottages and the Stormwing corpse at their feet. Aoife gulped, but set her jaw. 

“I’ve seen the aftermath of a battle before,” she said, working to keep her voice steady. 

“This wasn’t a battle, it was a massacre,” Numair said. “Rikash, she’s already here. Let’s get her up to the castle. She’ll be safe there.”

“I want to be with you,” Aoife said more quietly. “Whatever risks you take, you’ll have to take knowing I’m beside you.” 

Rikash let her horse go, and reached up to take her hand instead. He brushed something warm and heavy beneath her cloak, and heard Thyra’s warning cry. 

“You brought Thyra too?” Rikash was too worried and angry to keep his voice down. Aoife flinched. 

“What was I supposed to do with her?”

The horses started walking forward.

“Rikash, we have to go,” Daine called urgently. “The Stormwings are coming. If they catch us on the causeway to the castle, I don’t like our chances.”

Fuming, Rikash ran to the dun gelding. On Daine’s command, all four horses broke into a rapid canter. The village slid past them in a blur of smoke and destruction. Then the stones of the long causeway echoed underfoot as the horses began to gallop. Through gaps in the smoke, Rikash saw Stormwings circling back down into the village, but none of them paid the riders any attention. Aoife rode beside him, pale but determined. The guards at the gate let them pass, more concerned with searching the sky for enemies than the road. The gate crashed down again behind them, and Thyra woke with unhappy wails. 


	19. Dunlath: Part Two

Soldiers lined the walls of the castle, crossbows loaded and ready. Numair and a handful of local mages waited, nets at their feet shimmering with multicolored fires. The fief was full of refugees, farmers and loggers whose homes had been destroyed. Troops and supplies from Corus weren’t going to make it in time: bright metal wings rose from the smoke of the village, flying in ranks along the empty causeway. 

“This isn’t right,” Rikash said. Maura, beside him, shook her head. Her face was drawn, her grey eyes nervous. 

“Right or not, Rikash, they’re coming. They burned the village. We don’t have a choice.”

His Gift crackled over his skin. Anxiety made it unreliable; with death hovering over all of them, there was nowhere for it to go. Aoife lay her hand on his shoulder. The pale green fire rippled and sank into his body again as he forced himself to relax. Aoife’s eyes were calm, but concern wrinkled her brows. Thyra, asleep, lay against her mother’s chest, supported by a sling of bright fabric. 

“You should go inside,” Rikash told Aoife. He’d been trying to get her to safety since she’d met them in the village the day before, riding alone all the way from Corus. Then, as now, she refused.

“Then stay close,” he warned her, putting one arm around her waist. The other rested on the hilt of the feather blade as the ranks of Stormwings drew closer. He ran his fingers absently along the steel feather shaft, feeling the warmth of immortal magic still inside. His Gift flared to meet it, and suddenly he understood. 

“Maura, I need you to trust me.” 

“Do you have a plan?”

Rikash laughed. “I hope so. Tell your men to lower their weapons, but stay ready. Their queen will speak with me.”

Daine lowered her bow to look worriedly at him. Numair’s black glittering fire retreated into his hands, and all the soldiers on the wall followed their lead. 

“What are you doing?” Daine asked, but Rikash only shook his head. None of them would like his answer, but it would save all their lives, Stormwing and mortal alike. 

Zusha led the clan towards them, red-gold curls streaming back from her face beneath the black glass crown. When she spotted him, her lip curled with contempt. She threw her wings wide and the clan spread out in a line, hovering just outside crossbow range. Around him, Rikash heard the soldiers edge closer together. His own veins ran cold with the terror the Stormwings pushed ahead of them, but he knew he had to ignore it. 

“Zusha!” Rikash called. “I’m the one you’re here for. We can keep this between us. No need for more deaths on either side.”

Zusha sneered, but flew closer. “That was always your problem. Unwilling to make the sacrifices required.”

He felt Aoife look up at him, questioning, but there wasn’t time. If he thought about her and Thyra, he would waver, and Zusha would kill them all. He stepped forward, into the space between the crenellations, and curled his fingers around the feather blade’s hilt. The sword waited hungrily for blood, calling him to use it. 

“Just you and me, Zusha, one more time. Let the mortals keep their castle and their lives.”

His sister backed her wings to hover, surprise and anger bright in her eyes. 

“You still think you can command me?”

“I never wanted to.” 

Zusha wavered, talons flexing open and closed. 

“You don’t deserve the honor of death in combat. I’ll find your corpse in the rubble with all the other mortals.” 

She raised her wings to call down lightning; Rikash felt the air tense and crackle around him. Eerie blue light danced along weapons and armor. The human soldiers’ hands were white-knuckled on the grip of their weapons. Bowstrings creaked in complaint. The ranks of Stormwings behind Zusha waited for her command. Rikash raised his empty hands. 

“Please, Zusha, don’t. There’s no fight here.” 

Zusha’s thin mouth twisted. “They killed one of us and you defend them?”

“We both know that’s not true.” Rikash pitched his voice loud enough that all the soldiers, human and Stormwing alike, could hear him. “You murdered Felka and destroyed the nest yourself, and ambushed Barzha and Hebakh. You could never have defeated her in a challenge.”

A ripple went along the Stormwing line as each glanced at their neighbors. So he was right. They hadn’t known all of it. That, at least, was reassuring. The line fragmented as several Stormwings turned away, climbing lazily as though they’d just thought of somewhere better to be. Zusha watched them go, over her shoulder. Color rose in her chest and cheeks. 

“I defeated Barzha in a fair fight,” Zusha snarled.

“Where’s your consort, Queen Zusha?” Rikash scanned the remaining Stormwings for familiar faces. “Is there anyone left who will second you?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’m the queen now, and you’re nothing.” Zusha’s voice rose and cracked. 

“You’re right,” Rikash agreed. “There’s no victory in killing me, Zusha. I’m just a mortal. I can’t fight you, even if I wanted to. There’s nothing left for you to take. You’ve won.”

Zusha looked around herself in confusion as most of the clan abandoned her, and Rikash felt rising pity. All her life she’d felt overshadowed by him, and now she was destroying her own triumph for the sake of vengeance. 

Aoife shifted nervously behind him; he wished she had stayed safely inside. Thyra, heedless of the tension in the air, wiggled to get down. Zusha’s eyes snapped to the infant. Then she stooped on them, talons extended. Rikash drew the feather sword, but he was too slow. The steel talons closed around his daughter’s arm, yanking her from Aoife. Zusha beat her wings hard to regain altitude as Daine and the soldiers aimed their crossbows. Thyra screamed in pain and fear. Rikash stood on the parapet, watching helplessly as the Stormwing carried his child higher into the air. 

“You’re wrong,” Zusha cried down at him, panting the words out between wingbeats. She balanced on the current of air that rushed up the face of the wall, eyes wide and feverish with triumph. 

“That’s the trouble with sentiment: there is always more to lose.“ Zusha shook the dangling child for emphasis, and his heart clenched. Rikash had no answer; he knew she was right. He called out to Thyra instead. 

“I’m here, sweetheart. I won’t let her hurt you.”

The child sobbed breathlessly, face crumpled and splotchy. Blood coursed down her little arm, staining her dress at an alarming rate. 

Zusha laughed. “You were never a good liar.” 

Her talons opened, and his whole world slowed and narrowed to a single point. Thyra reached up, clutching at empty air, and screamed as she fell. There was no time to think, no plan to be made or regrets to be had. Rikash leapt from the parapet, driving the feather sword into his own belly as he fell. 

The pain was blinding, overwhelming. Through the brilliant white flash he focused on his daughter’s helpless falling form. His own body convulsed around the blade, every nerve and muscle screaming. Then the agony drained away into the wind that flooded past him. The white light faded and for the second time, Thyra was caught up in Stormwing talons. The ground rushed towards them, and he knew it was too late to pull up. Instead, he rolled, folding his wings around his daughter. They slammed into the earth at the base of the wall, and tumbled down the embankment. 

Aoife appeared beside him after the fall faster than he’d have thought humanly possible. Thyra was gasping, held carefully in his talons, too terrified even to cry. Rikash let her go reluctantly, all too aware he’d never get to hold her again. Aoife scooped her up, clutching the little girl tightly to her chest, and stared at him. He rose awkwardly to his feet, folding his wings with a clatter of steel. The sound made him wince, and startled Thyra out of her silence. She collapsed into Aoife’s arms and wailed. 

“You need to stop the bleeding,” he told Aoife, nodding at their daughter’s limp arm. Aoife’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but she didn’t move. Rikash bared his sharp silver teeth at her and flared his wings, frustrated and deathly afraid for the child.

“Find a healer. Go!” 

Aoife’s big dark eyes widened, and she fled back up the embankment. Rikash watched them go, hating himself for the fear he tasted in her wake. 

His sister lay on the ground nearby, her chest studded with crossbow bolts. He hopped over to her, talons sinking in the mud. Overhead, the flock spiraled up on the afternoon thermals, peeling off to the north. The battle was ended before it had even begun, but Zusha was still alive, struggling to breathe. Blood bubbled in her airway and frothed at her lips. Rikash snarled and dug the tips of his talons into her neck, a familiar cruel joy welling up in his body at the soft resistance of her throat as he crushed it underfoot. Her mad blue eyes stared into his, and she gave a choking laugh. 

“Your precious mortals will kill us all. You’ll see.” She tipped her head back, offering her neck. The black glass crown was shattered, glinting in pieces in the mud that darkened Zusha’s wild red mane. He remembered the soldiers from his first mortal day, dying in the mud. The afternoon sun glinted off steel feathers above him, and he imagined the soldiers’ terror as they watched the flock circle overhead. Whoever had dreamed up the Stormwings, dreamed well. 

“They need us,” Rikash told his sister. “You’ll never understand.” She was still laughing when he cut her throat. Her blood sprayed hot and silver across his chest. There was no triumph in it. 


	20. No Other Way

Afterwards, he flew to be with Aoife, who deserved an explanation. Maura sat beside her, watching over Thyra. Under the blanket, the toddler seemed impossibly small. Her wounds had been cleaned and sewn and a healer called, but her little face was ashen and still. Rikash wanted to reach out, to feel the warmth of her little forehead and the rise and fall of her chest, but he was confined to the wide window ledge, across the room and a world away. 

“How badly is she injured?” 

“The healer says she might lose the arm,” Maura said. Her voice quavered. “She lost a lot of blood.”

“This is your fault!” Aoife cried, laying a protective hand on their daughter’s leg over the blankets. 

“He saved her,” Maura argued quietly. “She’d be dead, if he hadn’t -“

“That monster came for my daughter because of him.” Aoife glared at Rikash, looking over his steel-feathered body with revulsion. She had looked at him very differently the night before, when they had held each other against the specter of death. “Because he’s one of them.” 

“Aoife, please,” Rikash said, but she cut him off. 

“Have you always been able to change? Can the others?” Aoife’s voice rose with hysteria.

He laughed bitterly, remembering the agony of the sword ripping through him and the shock of transformation; the relief that it had worked, and the desolation that followed. 

“No,” he said simply. “Only once.”

“Maura told me -“ She swallowed hard. “She told me today that you were like this before. A Stormwing.” 

Rikash shuffled on the windowsill, chipping at the stone with his talons.

Aoife stood, furious and hurt, and paced across the room. “How could you not tell me?”

“I tried,” Rikash began. “But -“

Thyra shifted and moaned in her magic-induced sleep, and Aoife lowered her voice. 

“Get out. Both of you.” 

Maura stood obediently, kissing the child’s uninjured hand and laying it gently on the bed. 

“Rikash?” Aoife settled herself on the bed beside their child. He sidled along the window ledge, faint hope rising that she might forgive him, that she might understand. “I never want to see you again.” 

Daine found him later, perched on the stable roof. She climbed up and sat beside him in silence. 

“Aoife won’t even look at me,” Rikash said finally, as the walls cast evening shadows over them. “She won’t let me see our daughter.”

“I’m sorry.” Daine laid a hand on his bare shoulder, where flesh met steel. “She just needs some time.”

He stared dry-eyed at the slate roof, already missing the warmth of human contact. He wanted her to be able to hug him, and to hug her back. But more than anything, he wanted to be back inside the castle with his wife and daughter. His heart ached, and his feathers drew in close to his body. 

“There was no other way,” Rikash murmured, more to himself than to Daine. She nodded, lips pressed tightly together. Her stubborn chin trembled anyway, and even in the twilight he could see tears threatening in her eyes. 

“Don’t cry,” he said, and reached out to her. The click of his feathers reminded him, and he drew back again. Suddenly the need to be away was overwhelming. He dove from the stable roof, catching himself less than a wingspan off the ground. The cushion of air beneath his feathers lifted him, and he rode it down the hill.

The shock of the transformation was less, this time. He remembered this shape, so he didn’t have to fight to manage it, as he had the human one. When he’d lost this life the first time, he had thought that was the worst pain imaginable. He wondered if the mortals understood just how much they had to lose.

He crested a small rise, skimming only a few feet over the earth, and saw someone standing directly in front of him. He backed his wings violently, trying to stop. The steel feathers of his wings and tail cut furrows in the ground. The dust of the road rose in a cloud around him, but he didn’t feel the expected collision. When the dust cleared, an old woman dressed in rags stood much too close for comfort. She thumped her cane on the ground, scowling at him. 

“There’s not many creatures as would dare throw my gift back in my face like that,” the Graveyard Hag said. Rikash struggled to catch his breath, strained muscles complaining in his back and legs from the abrupt landing. He scowled right back. 

“You gave me a mortal life. What I did with it was up to me, same as any other mortal.” 

“Don’t get smart with me, dearie. I had plans for you.” 

Rikash spat on the ground. “Curse your plans.” 

He expected the Hag to be angry. He wanted a fight. He wanted to lose. Maybe she would end his misery. Instead, she leaned on the cane, looking for once like a weary old woman. 

“When did you figure out how to change back?”

The question took him by surprise as much as her tone. She almost sounded proud of him. He felt his shoulders relax. 

“I wasn’t certain until yesterday,” Rikash answered, looking down at the neatly healed scar just below his ribs. “Numair tried to teach me battle magic, but that’s not what the sword wanted after all.  It wanted my blood. I could feel what the magic was for, but by then I didn’t want to change back.” 

He heard a metallic rustling and realized he was shaking. The Hag watched him in silence. 

“I didn’t want this!” Rikash insisted. “Please. I have a mortal family.”

“And you died for them, like a good mortal. That’s what they do.” Despite her cruel words, the Hag looked sad, her single eye shining.

Rikash lowered his head, wishing he could cry. 

“I’ll toss you for it,” he offered. 

“I didn’t do this to you. You did. And you know the rules. I couldn’t change you back even if I wanted to.”

“Then why are you here?” 

The Hag pulled a crown of black glass from nowhere. Rikash recoiled.

“I don’t want that!”

The Hag looked pleased. “That’s why you’re the one who should have it.”

Rikash spat at her feet and told her where she should put the crown instead. 

“I hoped the mortals might teach you some manners,” she sighed. “Or some respect for the gods.”

“You’re not my goddess,” he argued, knowing it was pointless. 

“Too late for that, dearie.” She offered him the crown again, and he turned away. 

“I don’t want it,” he said again, shaking the dust off his wings. The Hag pressed his wingtip to the ground with her cane. 

“Who should have it then? They need a ruler.”

He flicked his wingtip to free it. “I don’t care.”

The Hag tutted at him. “Stop playing hard to get. You know I’ll win, in the end.”

“Not this time,” he swore, but he tucked his wings back to his sides. Her bright eye stared at him impassively. “There has to be someone else you can torment for a change.”

“No.” Her negation was cheerful but left no room for argument. 

“Then destroy it, and all of us. Let the mortal world be done with Stormwings, and see what happens then.”

“You don’t mean that,” the Hag said, and for once he thought he’d rattled her. 

“They’re not my responsibility.” Rikash let his wings and tail fall limply into the dirt. “Everything I cared about is gone. There’s nothing else you can do to me.”

A silence stretched. When he looked up, the Hag was gone. He stood alone in the middle of the road, covered in dust. The sun was setting behind the castle, but he couldn’t face going back. There was nothing to go back to. He took off and felt for the border of the Divine Realms. The air currents shifted around him, but when he flew forward, he found himself still in the mortal world. He tried again, pushing more forcefully against the boundary. It pushed back. 

“I’m not going to do it,” he called out. “You may as well let me go.”

No one answered, but the barrier remained between the realms. He tested it several times on the way back to the castle, flying nearly blind once the sun set. Frustrated and grieving, he settled again on the roof of the stable. By the time a sliver of moon rose, he was asleep, and untroubled by dreams. 

Rikash opened his eyes against the glare of morning, stretching each wing in turn. Gradually, he became aware of someone sitting beside him. 

“Go away,” he snarled, expecting the Hag. 

“Aoife wants to see you,” Daine said gently. Rikash looked away, fighting down the leap of hope in his heart.

“No,” he said. 

“Thyra hasn’t woken up this morning. The healers are worried.”

Rikash curled his talons into the roof beam. Daine stood and tilted her head up into the sunshine. 

“Come on,” she said, and jumped off the roof. She grew wings and feathers as she fell, and shrank down to become a hawk. Rikash stayed where he was. The hawk circled the stable and screamed once. Then she folded her wings and dive-bombed him, her talons missing him by an inch. She climbed again, rolling over lazily at the top of her arc. Rikash watched her aerobatics, restlessness growing in his own wings. When she dove on him again, he followed her into the air. Daine’s hawk form could fly circles around him, but she kept just ahead of him. The morning air warmed as they flew, and he focused on catching the little brown hawk. His body enjoyed the exercise, but he pulled up, despising himself when he realized he was having fun. The hawk rolled over him, disappearing into a castle window. 

Heart sinking again, he flared his wings to land on the sill. The stone was already marked by his talons. Daine had transformed back into her natural shape, and stood beside Aoife and Maura. His wife looked exhausted. She was twisting her hands together, turning her silver ring around and around her finger. Rikash couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Hello, Rikash,” Aoife said. Her voice was hoarse from crying through a sleepless night. Daine looked at Rikash expectantly, but he didn’t know what to say. A little mew came from the floor below him, and Koshka jumped up on the windowsill. The kitten rubbed against his legs, purring. He closed one talon and stroked it gently down her side. When he looked back into the room, Aoife was watching him. Her expression softened a fraction. 

“Aoife,” Rikash managed, after a moment. They spoke over one another. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You saved our daughter,” Aoife continued. “I’m not ready to forgive you for the rest of it, but I’m grateful for that.”

“Where is she?” Rikash couldn’t see Thyra in the bed. Maura gave a little shake of her head,widening her eyes warningly behind Aoife’s back. 

“With the healer,” Aoife said. Her voice grew colder. “I should be with her.”

Rikash watched her leave. Koshka leapt from the window to follow Aoife and Daine, but Maura stayed. 

“How bad is it?” Rikash asked.

“The healer says she will have to take the arm,” Maura said with her usual bluntness. “Stormwing talons are dirty. The wounds are deep, and corruption is spreading. She may not survive.” 

Rikash’s wings jerked, scraping against the window frame. Thyra was just learning to walk. He remembered the first time she reached out to touch his face, and imagined that little hand discarded, gone forever. He couldn’t bear to imagine the world without her. 

“Tell them to wait,” he said. “Just an hour. If I’m not back by then, they can do what they must.”

“Where are you going?” Maura looked uncertain. 

“Swear it,” Rikash demanded. “Don’t let them touch her until I return.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Maura!” 

“One hour,” she agreed, and watched him fall from the window. 

Even the best kept stables have rats. Rikash flew through the open doors, sending the horses rearing and kicking in fright. He spotted a long pink tail among the rafters and landed there, the rat wriggling under his talons. Angry human voices called up at him, once the riders had calmed their horses, but he ignored them. The rat struggled ineffectually against his claws, carefully unharmed. 

“Tell your mistress she wins,” Rikash hissed at it. “And be quick about it.”

The rat stilled, little nose twitching, then squeaked once. Rikash lifted his foot, and it vanished into the shadows. He dropped from the rafters, gliding out the door. More shouts and panicked whinnies followed him, but he didn’t have time to care. 

There was no shrine in Dunlath to the Graveyard Hag, so Rikash waited for her on a low branch of a huge, twisted oak tree at a crossroad. It seemed like the sort of place she would like. A squirrel scolded him from the higher branches, tail flicking, and he thought of Daine. The minutes passed and the Hag didn’t appear. He wanted to pace, but this body had a hard time walking. The gold spark of magic in his chest flared as his anger grew. The squirrel chittered again, and a crow joined in. It called its friends to mob him, forcing him off the branch. He hopped to the ground, mantled against their attacks, but the noise grated at him until finally he pointed at the tree with a talon. Gold fire fell from the sky like lightning, splitting the tree in two. Smoke curled up from the crater where its roots had been. Rikash gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to blast it again. 

The Graveyard Hag brushed a bit of charred oak tree off her shoulder, standing right beside Rikash. He called her every name he could think of, in several languages. She tipped her head like a bird and watched him, amused.

“Does this mean you accept?” The Hag asked when he ran out of breath. She gestured, and the black glass crown appeared in her hand. 

“Yes,” he said, bowing his head. The Hag reached toward him. “But I have conditions.”

“Ooh, a bargain. You’re not in a good position for that, dearie.” But the Hag waited, the crown glinting in the fire from the oak tree, and Rikash knew she would agree.

“My daughter. Save her life, and keep her whole. Once she’s healed, you leave her and Aoife alone. Forever. That’s the deal.”

The Hag scowled. “Healing isn’t my domain.”

Rikash felt as though she’d punched him. He’d expected her to be unwilling, but it never occurred to him she would be unable. His legs gave out. He crouched down on the ground, and the Hag chuckled.

“That’s how I like my worshippers to greet me. Kneeling down in gratitude.” She placed the black glass crown on his head. “Not that many of them do, but it’s nice every now and again.”

“I hate you,” Rikash said, conversationally. He stood, looking the bent old goddess in the face. “My daughter?”

“Well and whole, as agreed.”

Rikash looked towards the castle. The crown shifted, and the Hag reached up with strong, twisted fingers to weave some of his hair around it. 

“I’ll see you soon, dearie,” she said, and vanished. 

Maura was still waiting alone near the window when he returned. 

“Where’s Thyra?” Rikash called as he landed. 

“The wounds closed up,” she assured him. “As if they’d never happened. She’s awake. Aoife is feeding her now, trying to make sense of it.”

“Where?” He demanded. “I need to see her.”

Maura’s eyes took in his soot-smeared face and the black crown. “I’ll get them into the courtyard.”

Rikash took off again, too anxious to sit still. He landed on the low railing in the courtyard, rocking foot to foot. Maura emerged a few long minutes later, one arm around a teary Aoife. Thyra patted her mother’s face, burbling happy nonsense. She sneezed when the bright morning sun hit her face, startling Aoife into tears again. Rikash glided across the courtyard, landing in front of them. Thyra looked at him with wide green eyes. His heart skipped, but then she smiled, showing two tiny teeth. Her little hands reached out to him, ten perfect fingers. 

“I don’t know how you did it, but thank you,” Aoife whispered, stepping closer to him. Thyra pulled at the green stone braided into his hair, cooing. He closed his eyes, and felt Aoife’s familiar hands working through the knots in his hair. She smoothed the strands around the black crown, and rebraided the piece behind his ear, where the green stone hung. Then she made another braid and wove in the silver ring she had worn. She wiped the soot from his face with her apron, then kissed his cheek and stepped back. Maura handed Thyra to her.

“I have to go,” Rikash said. 

“Yes,” Aoife agreed. “But you can come back.”

Thyra startled back when he opened his wings, but he looked down after several wingbeats to see her pointing up at him. The surviving members of the flock circled high overhead, waiting for him. Thyra was alive and well, and he had the air under his wings and a job to do. 


End file.
